LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE. 

From  the  Musee  Conde  at  Chant  illy. 


MICHEL 
DE   MONTAIGNE 


BY 


EDITH    SICHEL 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

E.    T.    BUTTON  AND   COMTANT 
1911 


\  t  b 


CONTENTS 


FACE 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN     ....  3 

MONTAIGNE  THE  PHILOSOPHER     .            .            .  ib$ 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE    ....  259 

INDEX         ......  265 


228550 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE.  French  School  of  the 
second  half  of  the  i6th  century.  Musee  de  Conde 
a  Chantilly,  .....  Frontispiece 

(From  a  photograph  by  M.  GIRAUDON.) 

VARIOUS  SIGNATURES,  SEALS,  ETC.,  .  .  To  face  page  32 

THE  TOWER  OF  MONTAIGNE'S  HOUSE  AS  IT  WAS 

IN  1823,      .  „        „      51 

FRONTISPIECE    OF     MONTAIGNE'S    *  VOYAGE     EN 

ITALIE.'    First  published  in  1774,  .  „        „     102 

(Engraved  by  SAINT-AUBIN.) 

MARIE  LE  JARS  DE  GOURNAY.  From  the  Frontispiece 
chosen  by  herself  for  her  book  '  Advis  et  Preseus,' 
1641,  .  „  „  125 

(From  a  photograph  by  M.  GIRAUDON.) 

MICHEL  SEIGNEUR  DE  MONTAIGNE.  From  an 
Anonymous  Portrait  at  Bordeaux,  old  but  not  con- 
temporary, although  very  likely  based  upon  an 
older  picture,  .  .  .  .  „  „  163 

PAGE  FROM  MONTAIGNE'S  *£SSAIS'  IN  THE  EDITION 

OF  1588  NOW  PRESERVED  AT  BORDEAUX.  Show- 
ing his  Annotation  to  Chapter  xvn.  Book  n.,  <De 
la  Presomption,'  and  the  cross  below  at  the  place 
where,  in  the  edition  of  1595,  the  praise  of  Mile, 
de  Gournay  was  inserted,  .  .  .  „  „  249 


TO 

AUGUSTA   FRESHFIELD 

Dear  Friend,  dear  Lover  of  Books — 

Montaigne  said:  (  The  intercourse  of  books  is  safest  and  most  our  own. 
.  .  .  It  helpeth  us  at  all  points  $  it  consoleth  our  age  and  solitude  .  .  . 
and  blunteth  the  stabs  of  pain.  For  books  receive  us  ever  with  the  same 
countenance  ,•  .  .  .  nor  can  I  say  how  reposefully  I  dwell  in  the  thought 
that  they  are  by  my  side  to  give  me  pleasure  when  my  moment  for  them 
comes — how  gratefully  I  acknowledge  the  succour  they  lend  my  life,  for, 
in  truth,  they  are  the  best  provision  I  have  found  upon  this  human 
voyage.'' 

To  whom  better  than  to  you  should  I  dedicate  this  my  inadequate  study 
of  the  man  who  wrote  thus  ? 

He  also  said:  'We  do  not  live,  we  only  exist,  if  we  hold  ourselves 
bound  by  necessity  to  follow  one  course  alone.  The  finest  spirits  are  those 
that  possess  the  largest  choice,  the  greatest  suppleness.'' 

This  is  another,  and  a  warmer,  reason  for  my  dedication  to  you,  who 
possess  so  large  a  choice — the  charitable  listener,  who  know  so  well  how 
to  live  the  life  of  understanding  and  sympathy. 

EDITH  SICHEL. 


PREFACE 

IN  publishing  this  little  study  of  Montaigne, 
I  should  like  to  express  my  gratitude  to  M. 
Fortunat  Strowski  for  the  invaluable  help  I 
have  had  from  him  in  choosing  and  getting 
my  illustrations,  and  for  his  kind  gift  of  the 
photograph  of  a  page  of  the  manuscript  of 
the  Essays  from  which  my  last  illustration  is 
taken. 

Also  to  M.  Steinheil  for  so  generously  giving 
me  the  prints  from  the  illustrations  of  his 
own  collection  of  portraits  of  Montaigne,  etc., 
from  which  all  my  illustrations,  excepting 
the  frontispiece  and  the  print  of  the  page  of 
the  Essays,  are  reproduced. 

I  wish  also  to  offer  my  warmest  thanks  to 
Mr.  Thomas  Seccombe  for  all  the  assistance 
he  has  given  me  in  my  Bibliography,  which 
is,  indeed,  his  rather  than  mine.  I  had  only 
made  a  bare  list  of  authorities  ;  the  scholarly 
comments  are  entirely  due  to  his  knowledge 
and  his  kindness. 

E.  S. 

HAMBLEDON,  April  1911. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE  was  born  in  1533. 
His  mother  was  from  Toulouse — a  Made- 
moiselle de  Lopez,  a  Protestant  lady  of  Jewish 
blood,  for  her  forefathers  were  Spanish  Jews 
from  Villanova,  near  Toledo.1  His  father, 
Sieur  Pierre  d'Ayquem  (de  Montaigne),  was 
a  Gascon  gentleman,  and  a  very  remarkable 
man.  Montaigne  used  to  say  that  there  was 
also  an  English  strain  in  the  family,  and  that 
during  the  English  occupation  of  Guienne 
the  Ayquems  had  intermarried  with  the  con- 
querors. However  that  may  be,  the  Sieur 
Pierre's  immediate  ancestors  were  of  the 
merchant  class.  His  grandfather,  Raymon 
d'Ayquem,  was  a  seller  of  dried  fish  and  a 
wine-exporter  at  Bordeaux  ;  Raymon's  son, 
Grimon,  kept  on  the  business  and  married 
well,  so  that  his  son,  Pierre,  started  auspi- 
ciously, and  had  a  gentleman's  education.  He 
was  a  man  of  parts,  a  man  of  taste,  who, 
when  he  was  seventeen,  got  a  name  for  the 
Latin  verses  that  he  published.  He  mastered 

1  Some  authorities  trace  the  family  to  Portugal,  not  to  Spain. 

3 


4  MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

Spanish  and  German  ;  he  dabbled  in  Renais- 
sance speculations  ;  he  also  went  to  the  Italian 
wars,  married  his  wife  on  the  way  home,  and 
settled  down  to  wine-selling. 

In  after  days  a  love  of  building  grew 
upon  him,  and  he  spent  a  great  part  of  his 
time  in  improving  his  estate  of  Montaigne. 
Here  it  was  that  his  boy  was  educated.  From 
earliest  days  the  child  lived  in  an  atmosphere 
of  religious  toleration.  He  himself,  we  gather 
from  his  pages,  was  brought  up  as  a  Catholic, 
like  his  father  ;  but  his  brother,  Thomas  de 
Beauregard,  and  his  sister  (later  Madame  de 
Lestonnac)  both  followed  the  faith  of  their 
mother.  That  Protestants  and  Catholics  of 
one  family  could  live  together  under  the  same 
roof  in  peace  and  unity  is  an  astonishing 
consideration  for  the  student  of  that  age  of 
frequent  persecution  ;  but  history  has  natur- 
ally to  be  the  record  of  signal  cases,  since  the 
rest  pass  unchronicled,  and  there  were  prob- 
ably, especially  in  the  provinces,  many  houses 
like  that  of  the  Ayquems.  In  their  case,  there 
was  no  fervent  conviction  to  embitter  them. 
Michel's  father  had  inherited  his  creed  ;  his 
mother's  race  most  likely  imbued  her  with 
the  need  of  religion  before  dogma,  and  with 
an  instinct  for  philosophic  tolerance.  It  seems 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN  5 

as  if  she  could  not  have  much  affected  her 
son's  life,  for,  strange  to  say,  he  makes  no 
mention  of  her — he  who  wrote  so  much 
about  his  father,  and  loved  him  with  such 
enduring  affection.  We  need  go  no  further 
than  the  Essays  for  a  full-length  portrait  of 
Pierre  d'Ayquem. 

'  For  his  demeanour,  it  was  of  a  gentle 
gravity,  humble  and  very  modest.  And  he 
took  marvellous  thought  for  the  decency  and 
comeliness  of  his  person  and  his  clothes, 
whether  he  was  on  foot  or  on  horseback.  In 
his  speech  he  kept  such  scrupulous  good  faith 
as  to  be  excessive  ;  his  conscience  and  his 
religion  were  generally,  in  truth,  nearer  to 
superstition  than  to  the  other  extreme.  As  a 
man  he  was  little  of  figure,  full  of  energy,  of 
upright  and  well-proportioned  stature.  His 
face  was  pleasant,  rather  brown.  And  he  was 
exquisitely  skilful  in  every  noble  exercise.  .  .  . 
I  have  seen  him,  when  he  was  sixty,  making 
mock  of  our  agility — now  throwing  himself, 
just  as  he  was,  in  his  furred  robe,  upon  the 
back  of  a  horse,  now  going  round  the  table 
on  his  thumb.  And  he  hardly  ever  went  up 
to  his  room  without  bounding  over  two  or 
three  steps  at  a  time.1 

1  Essais,  iii.  8  :  '  De  1'Art  de  conf£rer.' 


6  MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

c  In  all  the  arrangements  of  my  domestic 
affairs  I  love  to  use  his  rules  and  his  example, 
and  I  shall  try  and  pledge  those  who  follow 
me  to  use  them  likewise.  If  I  could  do 
better  for  him,  I  would.  I  glory  in  the 
thought  that  his  will  still  acts  in  me  and  thus 
goes  on  in  the  world.  God  grant  that  my 
hands  may  not  fail  in  fashioning  some  image 
of  his  life  —  some  reflection  of  so  good  a 
father.'1 

Pierre  d'Ayquem,  the  dilettante,  was  a  true 
man  of  the  age.  He  had  his  own  scheme  of 
education — a  fantastic  scheme,  yet  based  upon 
common  sense,  and  not  without  effect  upon 
the  ideas  of  Michel.  This  was  probably 
because  it  succeeded  and  left  agreeable  recol- 
lections. His  father,  in  his  own  way,  was  a 
democrat.  He  chose  poor  people  to  be  the 
baby's  sponsors,  and  he  was  sent  to  live  with 
a  family  of  peasants  in  a  neighbouring  village, 
so  that  from  the  first  he  might  be  trained 
up  to  simplicity  and  hardihood.  Before  his 
infancy  was  really  over  he  returned  to  Mon- 
taigne, and  his  education  began  in  good 
earnest  upon  his  father's  delightful  system. 
It  was  a  system  which,  foreshadowing  Kinder- 
garten methods,  was  founded  upon  the  avoid- 

1  Essais,  m.  9  :  '  De  la  Vanite.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN  7 

ance  of  tears.  All  nervous  shocks  were  to 
be  eschewed.  The  child  was  to  be  awakened 
by  music,  that  his  return  to  consciousness 
might  be  happiness.  The  rod  was  hung  up, 
it  was  seldom  if  ever  to  be  used,  and  the  chief 
traits  that  his  father  sought  in  those  who  had 
him  in  their  charge  were,  he  tells  us,  e  an  easy 
temper  and  amenity/  The  first,  the  only 
language  that  he  was  to  speak  and  hear  in  his 
early  years  was  Latin.  For  this  purpose  his 
parents,  the  chosen  tutor  who  held  him  in 
his  arms,  all  the  servants  of  the  Montaigne 
household,  and  even  the  villagers,  learned 
Latin.  More  than  a  hundred  years  later 
stray  words  of  that  tongue  still  lingered  on 
in  the  hamlet  of  Montaigne.  All  his  baby 
prattle  was  in  Latin,  and  he  knew  no  French 
until  he  was  six  years  old — it  seemed  to  him 
like  a  difficult  dialect.  The  purity  of  his 
speech,  indeed,  remained  intact  until  school 
learning  corrupted  it  ;  and  soon  after  he  went 
to  school,  his  masters  confessed  that  they 
felt  rather  timid  of  addressing  him  in  Latin, 
because,  while  his  words  flowed  naturally, 
they  still  had  to  hesitate  in  finding  theirs. 
Greek,  too,  he  began  to  learn  through  play, 
till  class  routine  broke,  too  soon,  into  his 
studies.  It  was  a  pity.  The  home  teaching 


8  MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

must  have  been  good,  for  his  sister  understood 
enough  Greek  to  take  in  a  conversation  in 
that  tongue  which,  in  later  times,  she  over- 
heard between  her  husband  and  an  official  ; 
they  had  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  be  under- 
stood, for  she  found  his  counsel  so  bad  that 
she  peremptorily  turned  him  out  of  her  house. 
But  it  was  a  Latin  poet,  not  a  Greek  one, 
who  revealed  to  Montaigne  the  enchantment 
of  books.  At  eight  years  old,  or  thereabouts, 
he  happened  upon  Ovid. 

'  The  first  relish  that  I  conceived  for  any 
book  came  of  the  pleasure  that  I  had  from 
the  fables  in  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid.  For 
when  I  was  some  seven  or  eight  years  old,  I 
slipped  away  from  all  other  distractions  that 
I  might  read  it  ;  the  more  so  that  it  was 
written  in  my  mother-tongue,  and  that  it  was 
the  easiest  book  I  knew,  and  the  best  suited 
in  its  matter  to  my  tender  years.  As  for 
Lancelot  of  the  Lake,  and  the  Amadises  and 
the  Huons  of  Bordeaux,  I  had  not  even  heard 
their  names/  l 

We  know  little  of  him  at  this  time,  except- 
ing his  fame  as  an  actor  of  twelve  years  old 
in  the  plays  given  at  his  Grammar  School, 
the  College  de  Guienne.  But  he  constantly 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  *De  1'tnstitution  des  Enfants.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN  9 

tells  us  that  he  was  not  brilliant — on  the 
contrary,  inert  and  apathetic. 

'  Albeit  my  health  was  sure  and  whole,  and 
my  nature  gentle  and  tractable,  I  was  withal 
so  heavy,  limp,  and  drowsy  that  none  could 
pluck  me  out  of  my  idleness,  not  even  for  the 
sake  of  play.  What  I  saw  I  saw  well,  and 
beneath  this  ponderous  disposition  I  nourished 
bold  imaginations,  and  opinions  beyond  my 
years.  My  mind  was  slow,  and  moved  only 
when  it  was  impelled,  my  understanding  was 
behind-hand,  my  invention  slack.  I  had  no 
vices  but  laziness  and  languor.  The  danger 
was  not  that  I  should  do  wrong,  but  that  I 
should  do  nothing.  And  thus  in  truth  hath 
it  happened.  The  complaints  that  ring  in 
my  ears  are  of  that  description  :  idle,  cold  in 
the  offices  of  friendship  and  relationship,  and 
over-fastidious  in  public  service.  The  most 
insulting  folk  do  not  say,  "  Why  hath  he 
taken  this,  why  hath  he  not  paid  that  ?  "  but, 
"  Why  doth  he  not  send  a  receipt  ?  "  and 
"  Why  doth  he  not  give  ?  "  ' l 

Nevertheless  he  took  in  a  good  deal.  He 
gained  a  knowledge  of  Terence,  Plautus, 
Virgil  ;  he  worked  with  private  tutors  at 
home — with  the  Scottish  poet  and  historian 

1  Essats,  i.  26  :  '  De  PInstitution  des  Enfants.' 


io         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

George  Buchanan,  with  the  learned  authors, 
Nicholas  Grouchy,  Guillaume  Guerente,  and 
Marc  Antoine  Muret.  As  early  as  thirteen 
he  left  school,  and  for  the  next  ten  years 
we  know  nothing  of  him.  We  can,  how- 
ever, be  pretty  certain  that  he  studied  at 
Toulouse,  the  great  centre  for  those  who  were 
learning  law,  for  we  find  that  he  knew  the 
chief  students  and  professors  of  the  period. 
He  must  have  heard  Cujas,  the  great  jurist, 
give  his  first  law-lecture  —  must  have  had 
Etienne  Pasquier,  the  poet,  for  fellow-student, 
since  he  it  was  who  chronicled  that  lecture 
as  one  of  the  events  of  his  life.  His  days  of 
pupilage  ended,  Montaigne  went  to  Bordeaux, 
which  alternated  with  Montaigne  as  his  home ; 
and  in  this  city  it  was  that,  in  1548,  he 
witnessed  the  terrible  revolt  against  the  tax 
of  the  Gabelle,1  the  murder  of  the  governor, 
the  dire  punishment  of  the  town,  from  which 
all  its  civic  rights  were  taken.  These  rights 
played  a  part  in  the  Montaigne  records  ;  for 
later,  when  Pierre  Ayquem,  after  filling 
various  official  functions,  was  made  mayor, 
he  travelled  to  Paris  to  negotiate  for  some 
remission  of  the  penalty,  and  characteristic- 

1  The  revolt  originated  at  Saintonge,  and  was  instigated  by 
its  inhabitants. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         n 

ally  took  with  him  several  c  pipes '  of  good 
wine  to  make  his  task  the  easier.  About  this 
time  he  bought  a  magistracy,  with  the  idea, 
most  likely,  that  it  would  revert  to  his  son. 
In  due  season  Montaigne  became  a  magis- 
trate of  the  Court  of  Perigueux,  which  was 
subsequently  merged  in  the  Parlement  of 
Bordeaux,  and  at  this  administrative  assembly 
he  and  his  fellow-councillors  duly  registered 
its  decrees.  The  religious  persecutions  of 
1562,  following  on  the  Edict  of  January, 
went  directly  against  Montaigne's  views,  yet 
he  voluntarily  came  forward  to  take  the  oath 
of  orthodoxy  ;  whether  as  a  protest  against 
lawlessness,  or,  as  is  more  probable,  from 
motives  of  worldly  prudence,  who  shall  say  ? 
It  is  all  of  a  piece  with  the  man  who 
would  '  carry  a  candle  for  St.  Michael  in 
one  hand,  and  a  candle  for  his  Dragon  in  the 
other.'1 

However  that  may  be,  we  may  be  sure  that 
Montaigne  was  always  a  magistrate  who 
worked  rather  by  experience  of  life  than  by 
the  letter  of  the  law.  Experience  was  what 
he  sought — and  found.  To  him  that  hath 
shall  be  given,  and  Montaigne's  eyes  were 
always  open,  his  curiosity  was  insatiable. 

1  Essats,  iii.  i  :  *De  1'Utilc  et  de  1'Honnete.' 


12         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

Shortly  afterwards  he  went  to  Rouen,  and 
there  he  came  into  the  midst  of  the  sensation 
that  was  caused  by  the  discovery  of  a  plot 
against  the  life  of  Franfois,  the  great  Due  de 
Guise.  What  is  more,  he  witnessed  the 
Duke's  splendid  pardon  of  the  criminal.  A 
few  months  later,  Guise  lay  murdered  by 
another  assassin's  hand.  To  Montaigne,  con- 
spiracies were  little  more  than  a  class  of 
human  phenomena  to  be  set  down  in  his 
encyclopaedic  note-book.  He  took  a  much 
warmer  interest  in  three  Brazilian  aborigines 
whom  he  discovered  at  Rouen,  men  of 
dignity,  c  although  they  wore  no  breeches,' 
who  were  trying  to  find  '  the  wisdom  of 
Europe,'  and  had  the  luck  to  find  Montaigne. 

But  these  were  minor  incidents.  They 
counted  for  nothing  beside  the  great  event  of 
his  life,  which  had  meanwhile  changed  his 
outlook.  Three  years  before  this  time,  in 
1557,  he  met  Etienne  de  la  Boetie. 

Montaigne  was  twenty-four.  He  had  lived 
— he  had  read — yet  we  cannot  speak  of  him 
as  complete  before  he  made  this  friendship. 
The  trend  of  his  mind  was  no  doubt  set,  his 
scheme  of  life  formulated  ;  but  the  finer  note, 
the  warmer  touch,  was  wanting ;  and  the 
sense  of  a  nature  above  his  own,  the  faculty 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         13 

for  admiration,  the  intense  feeling  of  solitude 
after  La  Boetie's  death,  the  apprehension  of 
mystery  which  it  brought  him — all  his  best 
hours,  the  richer  parts  of  his  nature,  would 
have  been  absent. 

What  manner  of  man,  indeed,  was  the 
Montaigne  whom  we  see  before  us  in 

I5S7  ? 

As  far  as  his  looks  are  concerned,  he  has 

painted  his  own  picture.  '  My  height,'  he 
says,  'is  rather  below  the  average.  This 
defect  hath  not  only  the  drawback  of  ugliness, 
but,  in  addition,  that  of  inconvenience.  .  .  . 
A  beautiful  figure,  in  truth,  is  the  only  beauty 
allowed  to  men.  .  .  .  For  the  rest,  my  figure 
is  strong  and  well-set,  my  face  not  fat  but 
full,  my  complexion — between  the  jovial  and 
the  melancholy — showeth  moderately  sanguine 
and  of  tempered  heat.  For  my  health,  it  is 
steady  and  gay.' 1 

The  last  few  lines,  describing  his  constitu- 
tion, describe  as  much  of  his  character  as 
depended  upon  it,  and  that  was  a  good  deal — 
till  La  Boetie  appeared,  almost  the  whole. 
By  that  time  Montaigne  was  what  he  re- 
mained :  the  Hedonist  without  low  tastes,  the 
Epicurean  without  high  instincts,  the  fastidi- 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  '  De  la  Presomption.' 


i4         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

ous  critic  of  all  excess,  the  lover  of  ease  and 
spontaneity,  the  upholder  of  human  dignity, 
the  votary  of  security,  the  apostle  of  his  own 
inborn  cheerfulness,  the  armed  foe  of  gloom 
and  avoidable  sorrow — and  he  taught  that  most 
sorrow  was  avoidable  if  men  looked  at  things 
as  they  were. 

Up  to  this  Montaigne  stepped  La  Boetie, 
two  years  older  than  he,  his  complement  in 
all  things,  his  opposite  in  many — the  Arthur 
Hallam  of  the  Renaissance,  calm  yet  fervent, 
walking  like  Montaigne  upon  a  level  path, 
but  a  path  across  the  heights.  To  Montaigne, 
outward  beauty,  as  he  tells  us,  was  all-im- 
portant. '  It  holds,'  he  wrote,  c  the  highest 
rank  in  human  intercourse — it  reduces  and 
possesses  our  judgment,  with  great  authority 
and  wondrous  power  to  impress.' l  La  Boetie 
was  ugly.2  Montaigne  was  prose — La  Boetie 
was  a  poet.  Montaigne  had  no  tast$  for  ties, 
and  when  he  took  a  wife,  it  was  purely  for 
conventional  reasons  ;  La  Boetie  had  made 
a  happy  marriage,  and  enjoyed  the  bonds  that 
he  had  formed.  Both  men  desired  to  be  of 
public  service — Montaigne  only  so  long  as  it 
involved  no  risk  to  himself ;  La  Boetie  at  any 

1  Essais,  iii.  12  :  *  De  la  Physionomie.' 

2  Ibid. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN          15 

cost  that  was  demanded.  Both  were  disgusted 
with  politics,  but  again  for  different  reasons  : 
Montaigne  with  the  disgust  of  the  cynic,  who 
says  '  leave  ill  alone '  and  retires  into  the 
comfort  of  seclusion  ;  La  Boetie  with  the 
disgust  of  disillusionment  resulting  from  effort 
that  has  failed.  And  both  were  opposed  to 
innovation — Montaigne  because  he  disliked 
its  discomfort  and  distrusted  reform  ;  La 
Boetie  because,  like  a  prodigal  son,  he  had 
tasted  of  revolt  and  found  it  barren.  For, 
unlike  Montaigne,  La  Boetie  had  begun  life 
as  a  rebel,  though  the  pen  was  his  sole 
weapon.  His  pamphlet  of  Contre-un,  which 
made  a  great  sensation,  was  directed  against 
monarchic  tyranny.  It  might  have  been 
composed  by  a  Girondin,1  and,  in  spite  of  the 
author's  professed  Catholicism,  was  penned  in 
so  Protestant  a  spirit  that  Calvin  embodied  it 
in  a  treatise  of  his  own.  It  was  written  when 
La  Boetie  was  little  more  than  twenty — 
although  Montaigne  asserts  that  he  wrote  it 
at  sixteen,  and  cautiously  saw  fit  to  apologise 
for  it  on  the  score  of  his  friend's  youth.  The 
error  was  perhaps  prompted  by  his  wishes,  for 
the  pamphlet  was  the  only  fact  in  La  Boetie's 
life  of  which  Montaigne  disapproved.  And 

1  Montaigne :  Dowden. 


1 6         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

yet  it  was  this  work  which  had  first  brought 
his  friend's  name  before  him.  He  admired  it 
long  before  he  knew  him. 

c  There  was/  he  says,  c  I  know  not  what 
predestined  and  inexplicable  force  which 
effected  this  union.  We  sought  one  another 
before  we  had  set  eyes  on  one  another,  and 
because  of  the  reports  that  each  had  heard 
of  each.  I  think  that  by  some  ordinance  of 
heaven  we  embraced  one  another  by  our 
names.  And  at  our  first  encounter,  which 
came  about  by  accident,  in  a  crowd  at  a  great 
city  festival,  we  found  ourselves  so  taken  one 
with  the  other,  so  familiar,  so  mutually  bound, 
that  thenceforward  nothing  could  be  nearer 
than  I  to  him  and  he  to  me.  .  .  .  For  that 
we  had  so  little  time  before  us,  having  begun 
so  late,  and  both  being  men  of  set  habit — he 
older  by  several  years  than  I  was — our  friend- 
ship had  no  time  to  lose,  nor  could  it  regulate 
itself  upon  the  pattern  of  soft  and  conventional 
friendships,  the  which  demand  all  the  pre- 
cautions of  a  long  preliminary  intercourse. 
This  our  friendship  had  no  idea  but  of  itself, 
and  can  only  be  compared  to  itself.  It  is  not 
made  up  of  one  consideration,  or  two,  or 
three,  or  a  thousand.  It  is  I  know  not  what 
quintessence  of  all  ties,  this  mingled  feeling. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         17 

the  which  having  taken  my  whole  will  by 
storm,  impelled  him  also  to  plunge — to  lose 
himself  in  me.  "  Lose/'  I  say,  and  I  speak 
truly,  for  we  ...  had  no  mine  and  thine.1 
.  .  .  What  we  customarily  call  friends  and 
friendship,  are  but  acquaintances,  are  but 
intimacies  formed  now  by  chance,  now  for 
convenience.2  .  .  .  But  this  companionship 
that  we  cherished  as  long  as  God  willed,  we 
keeping  the  same  perfect  and  entire  .  .  . 
findeth  no  parallel.  The  building  up  thereof 
demandeth  so  many  happy  chances  that  it 
is  much  if  fortune  can  achieve  it  once  in  three 
centuries.3  .  .  .  And  if  I  am  pressed  to  say 
why  I  loved  him,  I  feel  I  can  but  express 
myself  by  answering — "  because  he  was  he, 
because  I  was  I."  ' 4 

There  never  has  been  such  a  votary  of 
friendship  as  Montaigne  ;  none  made  such 
big  claims  upon  it,  or  had  them  so  adequately 
fulfilled.  '  As  for  comparing  thereunto  the 
love  for  women,  this,'  he  said,  'cannot  be 
attempted.  That  fire,  well  I  know  it,  is 
more  restless,  more  scorching,  more  arid.  But 
it  is  forked  fire  and  changeful — the  fire  of 
fever  .  .  .  and  holdeth  us  but  by  one  corner. 

1  Essats,  i.  28  :  '  De  1'Amitie.'  2  Ibid. 

3  Ibid.  4 


B 


1 8         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

...  As  soon  as  it  entereth  upon  terms  of 
friendship  ...  it  languisheth  and  fainteth. 
Contrariwise,  friendship  .  .  .  increaseth  only 
when  it  is  enjoyed,  for  that  it  is  of  the  spirit, 
and  that  by  use  the  soul  is  sharpened.' l 

This  kind  of  conversion  to  friendship  fixed 
Montaigne's  attitude  towards  baser  passions, 
as  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned.  He  put 
them  in  their  place  ;  he  had  small  value  for 
them,  but  he  did  not  give  them  up.  All  that 
he  demanded  of  himself  by  the  light  of  this 
new  feeling  was  to  know  how  to  appraise.  It 
was  outlook  that  mattered,  not  action. 

'These  two  sorts  of  passion,'  he  says, 
'  entered  into  me  in  full  cognisance  the  one 
of  the  other,  but  never  in  comparison.  For  the 
first  kept  on  its  course,  superbly  on  haughty 
wing,  watching  the  other  disdainfully  as  it 
gave  its  stabs  far  below.'2  For  Montaigne 
this  friendship  represented  his  Decalogue, 
his  code  of  morals.  'The  one  and  only 
friendship,  it  annuls  all  other  obligations '  ; 
it  absolves  a  man  from  the  oath  of  secrecy, 
since  his  friend  'is  no  other,  is  myself.'  It 
was,  indeed,  more  than  morality — it  was  re- 
ligion, the  only  religion  Montaigne  had.  He 
lost  himself  in  Etienne  de  la  Boetie.  It  is 

1  Essais,  i.  28:  'De  1'Amitie.'  2  Ibid. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         19 

not  surprising  that  he  should  have  chosen  him. 
La  Boetie's  mind  was  one  of  great  distinction, 
singularly  harmonious,  and  his  life,  strange  to 
say,  matched  his  thought.  He  was  even  of 
mood,  yet  as  ardent  as  if  he  were  not  even. 
He  had  studied  under  the  heretical  Du  Bourg 
at  Orleans,  and,  after  that,  his  life  had  few 
events  till  his  marriage  with  Madame  de 
Carles,  a  widow  with  two  children.  His  wife 
adored  him  ;  he  repaid  her  feeling,  and  perhaps 
the  name,  Ma  Semblance,  which  he  gave  her, 
is  the  surest  symbol  of  their  happiness.  He 
grew,  too,  in  public  estimation,  was  sent  on 
more  than  one  mission  of  importance  to  the 
State,  and  was  appointed  as  a  magistrate  at 
Bordeaux.  Montaigne,  naturally,  thought 
him  underrated — '  Knowing  as  I  do,'  he  said, 
c  that  Etienne  de  la  Boetie,  one  of  the  men 
best  suited  to  the  needs  of  France,  was  left  to 
grope  among  the  cinders  of  his  hearth  to  the 
great  loss  of  our  common  weal.  As  for  him, 
...  he  was  so  richly  furnished  with  the  goods 
and  treasures  that  defy  fortune,  that  never  did 
a  happier  or  more  contented  man  tread  the 
earth,  .  .  .  but  then  that  is  no  reason  why  a 
noble  captain  should  remain  in  the  ranks.'1 
La  Boetie's  honours,  it  is  true,  were  mainly 

1   Lettres  de  Montaigne  :   A  Monsieur  de  THopital. 


20         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

local,  but  he  had  no  distaste  for  being  a  pro- 
phet in  his  own  country,  and  his  last  action 
before  his  mortal  illness  was  to  prepare  for 
the  defence  of  Bordeaux  against  an  expected 
attack  of  the  Huguenots.  He  had,  besides, 
many  compensations.  His  social  life  was  a 
full  one.  He  seems  to  have  had  a  gift  for 
friendship.  At  Orleans  he  formed  a  close  tie 
with  Danou,  who  later  figured  as  a  Reformer. 
The  poet  Bai'f  was  another  intimate,  and  so, 
probably,  was  Dorat,  for  one  of  La  Boetie's 
poems  is  written  upon  the  clock  of  Charlotte 
Laval,  who  was  Dorat's  first  wife.  He  at- 
tracted the  best  men  of  his  day,  and  he  had 
the  honour  to  defend  Ronsard  from  the  attacks 
of  a  certain  councillor  who  puritanically  con- 
demned him  for  putting  earthly  love  before 
the  love  of  God.  '  There  are  many  more 
ways  than  one  of  praising  God,'  said  La  Boetie, 
.  .  .  '  Let  Ronsard  celebrate  Him  in  his  own 
divine  verse  ;  the  councillor,  for  his  part,  may 
praise  God  hardly  less  by  his  silence.'  But  all 
these  lesser  interests  paled  before  his  devotion 
to  Montaigne — as  warm,  as  sudden,  as  Mon- 
taigne's feeling  for  him.  Intellectually  speak- 
ing, one  could,  if  one  would,  account  in  some 
sort  for  the  affinity.  Montaigne  admired  his 
friend's  power  of  equilibrium  and  the  well- 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         21 

adjusted  balance  of  his  qualities  almost  more 
than  any  of  his  characteristics.  But  there 
was  love  at  first  sight  on  either  side,  although 
La  Boetie,  perhaps,  influenced  Montaigne 
more  than  Montaigne  influenced  him. 

'  Having  loved/  he  says,  c  above  all  else  on 
earth,  the  feu  Monsieur  de  la  Boetie,  the 
greatest  man,  to  my  mind,  of  our  age,  I 
should  think  I  had  failed  sorely  in  my  duty 
if,  knowingly,  I  allowed  so  rich  a  name  as  his 
to  perish.  .  .  .' ] 

'  While  he  lived  he  did  me  the  honour — 
and  I  count  it  among  my  greatest  blessings — 
to  set  up  betwixt  us  a  bond  of  friendship  so 
close  and  tied  so  fast  that  there  has  been  no 
hidden  spring  in  his  soul  that  I  have  not  been 
able  to  know  and  contemplate,  unless,  indeed, 
now  and  then  I  proved  shortsighted.  And 
without  exaggeration  he  is,  take  him  all  in 
all,  so  nearly  a  miracle  that  ...  in  order  not 
to  be  disbelieved,  I  am  forced  when  I  talk 
about  him  to  draw  in  and  to  understate  my 
knowledge  of  him/  2  c  By  the  grace  of  God, 
I  have  passed  my  life  softly  and  smoothly, 
and  but  for  the  loss  of  such  a  friend,  free  from 
heavy  sorrow,  in  full  tranquillity  of  spirit. 

1  Lettres  de  Montaigne :  A  Monsieur  de  Mesmes. 

2  Lettres  de  Montaigne :  A  Monsieur  de  Lansac. 


22         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

And  I  have  accepted  as  my  wage  the  natural 
comforts  that  are  born  with  us,  without  seeking 
for  others.  And  yet,  in  truth,  if  I  compare  all 
the  rest  of  this  my  life  ...  to  the  four  years1 
given  me  in  the  which  to  enjoy  this  being's 
sweet  company  ...  it  is  but  smoke,  but  a 
dark  and  tedious  night.  From  the  day  I  lost 
him  ...  I  can  only  drag  on  wearily,  and 
even  the  pleasures  which  come  to  me,  instead 
of  consoling,  redouble  my  grief  for  his  loss. 
We  went  halves  in  all  things.  It  seemeth  to 
me  that  I  rob  him  of  his  share.  ...  So  used 
was  I  to  be  second  everywhere,  that  now  I 
feel  I  am  no  more  than  half  a  man.'2 

Montaigne  transmits  his  sorrow.  La  Boetie's 
early  death  still  fills  us  with  regret  —  for  his 
friend,  for  his  own  unfulfilled  promise.  His 
poetry  was  not  what  Montaigne  thought  it ; 
it  is  no  more  than  verse  of  a  high  average.  It 
is  his  life  that  has  the  power  to  move  us.  And 
his  death  was  of  a  piece  with  his  life.  Mon- 
taigne's words,  from  a  letter  to  his  own  father, 
make  the  tragedy  seem  as  of  yesterday. 

'  As  I  came  back  from  the  law-courts,  on 
Monday  the  9th  August  1563,  I  sent  to  ask 
him  to  come  and  dine  with  me.  He  returned 
me  his  thanks,  but  said  that  he  felt  rather 

1  In  reality  six  years.  2  Essais,  i.  28:   '  De  1'AmitieV 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         23 

unwell,  and  that  I  should  be  giving  him  a 
pleasure  if  I  would  go  round  and  spend  an 
hour  with  him  before  he  set  out  for  Medor.1 
I  went  directly  after  dinner.  He  was  lying 
down  ready  dressed — but,  already,  there  was 
I  know  not  what  alteration  in  his  face/2 

He  told  his  friend  that  the  day  before,  too 
thinly  clad  c  in  silk,'  he  had  played  at  some 
game  with  M.  d'Escars  and  had  caught  a  chill. 
Montaigne  begged  him  to  defer  his  departure. 
But  as  the  pestilence  had  infected  neighbour- 
ing houses,  he  advised  him  to  move  out  of  the 
town.  So  La  Boetie  rode  to  Germignan,  two 
leagues  from  Bordeaux,  in  company  with  his 
wife  and  uncle.  Next  day  Madame  (called 
Mademoiselle,  according  to  the  then  prevail- 
ing fashion)  sent  for  Montaigne  early  in  the 
morning.  Serious  symptoms  had  set  in  ;  she 
had  summoned  a  doctor  and  an  apothecary. 
When  Montaigne  came,  La  Boetie  '  seemed 
overjoyed  '  to  see  him,  and  when  he  said  good- 
bye, promising  to  return  next  day,  *  he  begged 
with  more  affection  and  insistence  than  I  had 
ever  seen  him  use,  that  I  would  be  with  him 
as  much  as  I  could.  I  was  deeply  touched  ; 
nevertheless  I  was  departing,  when  Made- 

1  Probably  Medoc, 

2  Lettres  de  Montaigne :  A  Monseigneur  de  Montaigne. 


24         MONTAIGNEf THE  MAN 

moiselle  de  la  Boetie,  who  had  I  know  not 
what  forebodings,  came  to  me,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes  and  implored  me  not  to  stir  that 
night.  So  she  stopped  me,  and  he  was  glad/ 
Is  it  the  simplicity  of  Montaigne's  speech, 
the  lingering  love  with  which  he  follows 
every  detail  of  those  days,  that  makes  us  feel 
as  if  we  knew  that  last  sad  watch,  with  its 
faint  flickerings  of  hope,  its  dull  despond- 
encies, its  momentary  relief  in  ministration  to 
the  wants  of  the  sufferer  ?  Montaigne  came 
and  went.  At  the  end  of  the  week  La  Boetie 
told  him  that  '  his  complaint  was  said  to  be 
rather  infectious,  that  anyhow  it  was  gloomy 
and  unpleasant.'  c  He  knew  my  temperament 
so  well,'  he  said,  '  that  he  begged  me  only  to 
come  on  short  visits,  but  as  often  as  I  could. 
I  did  not  leave  him  again.'  Whoever  has 
measured  the  depths  of  Montaigne's  caution 
will  measure  his  friendship  by  that  sentence, 
and  will  not  find  it  wanting.  Death  had  not 
yet  been  mentioned  between  them.  They 
had  spoken  of  little,  indeed,  save  the  illness, 
for  'from  the  first,  he  showed  himself  disgusted 
with  public  affairs.'  But  the  next  day,  a 
Sunday,  he  fainted,  and  'when  he  came  to 
himself  he  told  me  that  he  had  seemed  to  be 
in  universal  confusion  and  to  see  nothing  but 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         25 

a  thick  dark  cloud  and  fog,  in  the  which  all 
things  appeared  to  be  pell-mell,  and  yet  felt 
he  no  whit  displeased  throughout  this  accident. 
"  Death  hath  nothing  worse  than  that,  my 
brother" — so  I  said.  "It  hath  nothing  so  bad," 
was  the  answer  he  gave  me/  That  same  day 
he  grew  worse,  and  Montaigne  begged  him  to 
tell  him  any  wishes  he  might  have  concerning 
his  affairs.  It  would,  he  urged,  ill  befit  a  true 
friend,  who  had  always  known  him  to  be  of 
good  judgment,  to  allow  him  to  leave  business 
troubles  behind  him.  La  Boetie  complied, 
and  when  the  task  was  accomplished  he  asked 
for  his  wife  and  uncle  that  he  might  tell  them 
what  was  in  his  will.  '  I  shall  console  them 
and  make  them  of  better  cheer  about  my  health 
than  I  myself  feel,'  he  pleaded,  when  Mon- 
taigne demurred  at  his  request.  Montaigne 
told  him  the  bad  symptoms  were  nothing. 
4  In  truth  they  are  nothing/  he  rejoined,  c  even 
should  what  you  fear  happen.'  '  That  would 
be  pure  happiness  for  you,'  said  his  friend  ; 
'the  pain  would  be  for  me,  who  lose  the 
company  of  a  great  and  wise  and  faithful 
friend,  such  as  I  know  I  can  never  find  again.' 
4  That  may  well  be,  brother,'  the  dying  man 
replied  .  .  .  'but,  however  these  things 
stand,  I  am  ready  to  depart  when  God  wills. 


26         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

.  .  .  And  as  for  you,  my  friend,  I  know  you 
possess  such  wisdom  that,  whatever  your 
personal  claims,  you  will  submit  willingly  and 
patiently  to  all  that  it  pleases  His  Divine 
Majesty  to  order  of  me.  And  I  entreat  you 
to  take  care  that  the  sorrow  for  my  loss  does 
not  push  that  good  man  and  that  good  woman 
(his  uncle  and  his  wife)  beyond  the  bounds  of 
reason.' 

Until  that  time  he  had  hidden  his  real 
state  from  them,  putting  on  the  gayest  of 
countenances.  Even  now  when  he  summoned 
them,  he  said  that  he  had  no  fear  of  death,  but 
that,  since  human  affairs  were  unstable,  he 
wished  to  settle  his  in  good  time.  His  uncle 
had  been  to  him  a  father — he  made  him  his 
heir.  He  begged  his  wife,  his  Semblance^  to  take 
what  he  could  give,  although  it  was  far  below 
her  worth.  And  to  Montaigne,  '  chosen 
from  among  so  many,  ...  for  that  a  friendship 
such  as  theirs  was  hardly  known  even  in 
antiquity/  he  bequeathed  his  entire  library. 
Then  speaking  to  all  three,  '  he  praised  God 
that  in  his  extreme  need  he  was  accompanied 
by  those  that  he  loved  best  in  the  world  ;  he 
thought  it  a  noble  sight,  he  told  them,  to  see 
a  circle  so  firmly  bound  together  in  friendship.' 
Presently  he  called  for  a  priest  ;  c  he  had 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         27 

lived,'  he  said,  ca  Christian  and  a  Catholic, 
and  so  he  would  end.'  When  he  had  begun 
to  speak,  he  had  seemed  a  dying  man  ;  but  as 
he  talked  his  colour  returned,  his  pulse  grew 
stronger.  Montaigne,  his  heart  wrung  with 
grief,  had  not  been  able  to  answer  him.  Later 
he  apologised. 

c  I  blushed  for  shame,'  he  said  to  him,  c  that 
my  courage  failed  me  .  .  .  and  I  hardly 
believed  that  God  could  give  a  man  such 
courage  over  mortal  accidents  (as  you  have 
shown)  .  .  .  but  I  praised  Him  that  I  had 
found  it  in  one  who  loved  me  so  greatly  and 
who  was  so  dearly  loved  by  me.  .  .  .  Then, 
taking  my  hand,  "  My  brother,"  quoth  he,  "  I 
assure  you  that  many  things  in  my  life  have 
been  quite  as  hard  and  troublesome  to  do  as 
this.  And,  when  all  is  said,  I  have  long  been 
prepared  for  it — I  have  long  known  my  lesson 
by  heart.  Have  I  not,  at  my  age,  lived  long 
enough  ?  I  am  nearly  thirty-three.  ...  As 
for  myself,  I  am  certain  that  I  am  going  to 
God  and  the  dwelling-place  of  the  blessed." 
Then,  because  I  showed  even  in  my  counten- 
ance the  trouble  that  his  words  awoke  in  me  : 
"  What,  brother  !  "  said  he,  "  do  you  want  to 
make  me  feel  fear  ?  If  I  felt  it,  whose  business 
would  it  be  to  rid  me  thereof  but  yours  ?  " 


28         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

Towards  evening  he  made  his  will  ; 
summoned,  in  turn,  his  favourite  niece  and 
his  young  step-daughter,  and,  after  giving 
them  good  counsel  for  their  lives,  he  took  his 
leave  of  them.  '  I  wish  you,  I  implore  you, 
to  remember  me,'  he  said  to  his  niece,  'for 
the  sake  of  the  friendship  I  have  borne  you 
and  not  because  of  ...  your  mourning  for 
my  death  ;  as  far  as  in  me  lies,  I  forbid  that  to 
all  my  friends.  .  .  .  And,  dear  girl,  I  assure 
you  that  if  God  at  this  hour  let  me  choose 
whether  I  might  return  to  life,  or  finish  the 
voyage  I  have  begun,  I  should  find  the  choice 
very  hard.  Farewell,  my  niece  and  my  friend.' 
He  went  on  speaking,  although  the  room  was 
full  of  the  sound  of  weeping.  But  at  last  he 
asked  the  company  to  depart,  and  only  desired 
to  see  Montaigne's  brother,  M.  de  Beauregard, 
a  follower  of  the  Protestant  faith.  '  Would 
you  like  me  to  say  something  that  I  have  it 
on  my  mind  to  tell  you  ? '  he  began,  after 
thanking  him  for  coming.  Beauregard 
begged  that  he  would.  There  was  no  one, 
said  La  Boetie,  in  whose  single-minded  zeal 
for  religion  he  believed  as  strongly  as  in  that 
of  Beauregard.  He  knew  that  the  abuses  of 
the  Church,  sorely  needing  correction,  had 
prompted  his  course.  c  For  the  moment,'  he 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         29 

went  on,  <  I  have  no  wish  to  move  you  from 
your  path  ;  in  truth  I  would  ask  no  man  to  do 
anything  whatever  against  his  conscience.  But 
I  want  to  warn  you  ...  to  flee  from  ex- 
tremes ;  be  not  so  grim  or  so  violent;  form  no 
band,  no  body,  apart  ;  unite  all  together.  .  .  . 
Take  what  I  say  in  good  part  ...  for  to  say 
it  have  I  reserved  myself  to  this  hour,  that, 
perchance,  considering  my  condition,  you 
might  give  more  weight  to  my  words.' 

The  next  day  began  his  last  agony.  Even 
his  courage  yielded  for  a  moment.  He  called 
Montaigne  'piteously.'  'My  brother,'  he 
said,  c  have  you  no  pity  for  all  the  torments 
that  I  suffer  ? '  But  even  then,  when  Mon- 
taigne quoted  Pindar,  he  was  able  to  give  a 
counter-quotation. 

On  Tuesday  he  received  Extreme  Unction, 
professed  his  faith  and  his  humility,  and, 
when  the  priest  had  gone,  begged  Montaigne 
and  his  uncle  to  pray  for  him — '  the  best 
office,'  he  added,  '  that  one  Christian  can  do 
for  another.'  His  uncle  placed  a  coverlet 
upon  him.  '  It  belongs  to  a  noble  heart  to 
desire  to  owe  more  to  one  to  whom  he  already 
owes  much,'  he  said,  citing  Cicero's  Epistles. 
He  often  reminds  us  of  Sir  Thomas  More. 
Shortly  afterwards  he  said  to  one  near  him — 


3o         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

'  My  good  friend,  I  was  here  on  earth  on 
purpose  to  pay  a  debt,  but  I  have  found  a 
kind  creditor  who  has  remitted  it '  ;  and  later, 
as  he  woke  from  sleep  with  a  start — '  Good, 
good,  let  it  come  when  it  will  ;  I  wait  for  it 
gaily,  standing  upright.' 

While  Montaigne  was  at  supper  that  even- 
ing, he  was  suddenly  sent  for.  '  I  am,'  said 
La  Boetie, '  no  longer  a  man,  I  am  only  of  the 
human  species '  ;  and,  indeed,  adds  Montaigne, 
6  he  was  no  more  than  the  image  and  shadow 
of  a  man/  But  he  was  upheld — the  best 
moment  of  his  life  was  the  last.  '  Brother, 
friend,'  he  cried,  c  please  God  that  I  may 
behold  the  reality  of  the  imaginations  that 
I  have  just  had  ! '  After  a  long  silence,  '  for 
his  tongue  began  to  refuse  to  do  its  work,' 
'  What  are  they,  brother  ? '  asked  Montaigne. 
c  Great,  great,'  he  replied.  c  There  has  been 
no  time  in  my  life,'  said  Montaigne,  '  when  I 
have  not  had  the  honour  to  share  in  every 
imagination  that  passed  through  you  ;  do  you 
not  still  wish  me  to  enjoy  them  ? '  c  I  am 
one  with  you  in  this,'  answered  he,  '  but,  my 
brother,  I  cannot  tell  them — they  are  wonder- 
ful, infinite,  inexpressible.'  '  And  we  got  no 
farther,'  added  Montaigne — '  he  could  say  no 
more.'  Death  came  nearer  ;  he  heard  the 
sobs  of  his  wife.  A  little  while  before,  he  had 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         31 

still  kept  a  smiling  face  for  her,  had  called 
her,  said  he  had  a  story  to  tell  her,  and  then 
stopped,  unable  to  speak.  Now  again  he  tried 
to  encourage  her.  '  Ma  Semblance ','  said  he, 
'  "  why  torment  yourself  before  the  time  ?  will 
you  not  have  pity  on  me  ?  Take  courage, 
for  in  truth  the  half  of  my  distress  is  for  the 
grief  I  see  you  suffer.  ...  As  for  the  ills  we 
feel  in  ourselves,  it  is  not,  strictly  speaking, 
we  ourselves  who  feel  them,  but  certain  senses 
that  God  has  put  in  us  ;  but  what  we  feel  for 
others,  we  feel  through  our  understanding.  .  .  . 
But  I  arn  going  !  "  (This  he  said  because 
faintness  had  seized  him.)  Then,  fearing  he 
had  frightened  his  wife,  he  caught  himself  up. 
"  I  am  going  to  sleep,"  he  said,  "  good-night, 
my  wife  ;  go  from  me."  This  was  the  last 
leave  he  took  of  her.' 

When  she  went,  he  begged  Montaigne  to 
stay  near  him.  c  The  thrusts  of  death  grew 
sharper  and  more  urgent  ;  his  voice  became 
louder/  He  entreated  Montaigne  again  and 
again  to  give  him  '  some  place  to  be  in.' 
Montaigne  thought  he  was  delirious.  c  Since 
you  breathe  and  speak,  and  have  a  body,  you 
have  a  place/  he  said. 

c  True,  true,  it  is  so,'  he  exclaimed,  '  but  it 
is  not  the  place  I  desire  ;  besides,  when  all  is 
said,  I  no  longer  have  a  being.'  '  God  will 


32         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

soon  give  you  a  better  place,'  said  Montaigne. 
'  Would  I  were  there  ! '  he  answered — c  these 
three  days  I  have  longed  to  be  gone.'  '  After 
that  he  often  called  me,'  adds  Montaigne, 
'  only  to  make  sure  that  I  was  near  him.  And 
an  hour  afterwards,  or  thereabouts,  saying  my 
name  once  or  twice,  and  heaving  a  great  sigh, 
he  gave  up  the  ghost.' l 

So  died  Etienne  de  la  Boetie,  before  he  was 
thirty-four,  and  with  him  died,  perhaps,  the 
best  part  of  Montaigne.  It  seems  right  to 
dwell  long  upon  this  episode,  even  at  the 
sacrifice  of  due  proportion,  because  of  the 
immense  difference  it  made  in  Montaigne's 
life.  It  cut  it  into  two  halves.  It  was  not 
only  his  friend's  death  that  made  the  mark  ; 
it  was  the  manner  of  his  dying.  The  impres- 
sion left  by  his  deathbed,  most  of  all  by  those 
unexpressed  visions,  helped  Montaigne  to  keep 
something  alive  that  might  else  have  shrunk, 
or  even  withered.  But  his  heart  contracted. 
After  he  had  lost  him,  love  had  little  to  do 
with  his  life.  He  knew,  indeed,  only  two 
real  affections — that  for  his  father,  which  had 
always  been  there  ;  that  for  the  friend  he  had 
chosen.  And  it  was  the  friend,  and  the  friend 
alone,  in  whom  he  was  able  to  forget  himself. 

1  Lettres   de    Montaigne :  A    Monseigneur,    Monseigneur   de 
Montaigne  for  the  description  of  La  Beetle's  death. 


msi- 


-4~vw</"  \$$ 


SIGNATURE  OF  ETIENNE  DE  LA  BOETJE. 


SKETCH  OF  THE  CHATEAU  DE  MONTAIGNE,  TAKEN  ABOUT  1789 
BY  M.  LACOUR. 


SIGNATURE  OF  MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE. 


SEAL  WITH  THE  ARMS  OF  MONTAIGNE. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         33 


II 

THE  finest  side  of  the  next  two  years  of 
Montaigne's  life  was  his  loyalty  to  Madame 
de  la  Boetie — his  faithful  efforts  to  console  her. 
But  he  found  the  task  impossible  :  c  he  could 
not/  he  said,  c  lay  his  axe  to  the  root/  She 
remained  inconsolable.  These  years  are  best 
left  unrecorded.  Maddened  by  grief,  Mon- 
taigne deliberately  sought  distraction  through 
his  senses  ;  but,  like  many  intellectual  people, 
his  vices  were  the  result  of  curiosity  rather 
than  temperament,  and  his  curiosity  came  to 
an  end.  He  thought  himself  very  reasonable. 
Even  in  his  vices  he  *  did  not/  he  said, 
'  venture  far  from  home.' l  And  after  the  two 
years  he  married  Mademoiselle  Fran9oise  de 
Chassaigne,  a  lady  of  Bordeaux.  He  makes 
no  secret  of  his  reasons  for  marrying.  He 
believed  in  the  institution  of  the  family,  and 
he  wished  to  be  made  comfortable.  He  did 
not  care  whether  he  loved  his  wife  or  not. 
He  did  not  care  for  children,  but  he  cared  for 
his  name  and  his  estate.  His  heart  had  still 

1  Essais,  iii.  2  :  *  Du  Repentir.' 


34         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

no  room  for  any  feeling  but  regret  ;  his  wife 
was  bound  to  be,  in  some  measure,  the  victim 
of  his  sorrow  for  La  Boetie. 

*  Will  any  one  ever  compute,'  he  asked, 
c  the  value  of  a  friend  compared  with  these 
civil  unions  ?  ...  As  I  know  by  too  sure  an 
experience,  there  is  no  consolation  for  the  loss 
of  our  friends  so  soothing  as  the  knowledge 
that  we  forgot  to  tell  them  nothing  we  wished 
to  tell — that  we  held  with  them  perfect  con- 
verse and  entire.  Oh,  my  friend  !  Am  I  the 
better  for  having  loved  such  intercourse  ?  or 
the  worse  ?  Surely  I  am  much  the  better. 
My  grief  for  him  is  my  comfort  and  my 
honour.  Is  it  not  the  sweet  and  pious  office 
of  my  life  for  evermore  to  celebrate  his 
obsequies  ?  Is  there  an  enjoyment  in  the 
world  which  is  worth  my  privation  ? ' l 

All  the  same,  in  spite  of  this  indifference  to 
his  wife,  he  was  faithful  to  her.  It  was  part 
of  his  code  of  manly  honesty,  and,  on  the 
score  of  morality,  Madame  de  Montaigne  had 
nothing  to  complain  of.  On  other  scores, 
needful  to  her  heart,  who  knows  ?  But 
Montaigne  shall  speak  for  himself. 

'  I  should  deliberately  have  fled  from  a 
marriage  with  Wisdom  herself — that  is,  if  she 

1  Essais,  iii.  8  :  *  De  1'AfFection  des  p£res  aux  enfants.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         35 

would  have  had  me.  But  talk  as  you  will, 
custom  and  the  common  habit  of  life  are  too 
strong  for  us.  For  instance,  the  greater  part 
of  my  actions  are  not  directed  by  my  choice. 
At  all  events,  I  was  led  hereunto  [to  marriage] 
for  reasons  outside  myself,  and  came  to  it 
certainly  worse  prepared  and  more  hostile 
than  I  am  now,  when  I  have  tried  it.  For 
all  that  men  think  me  so  licentious,  I  have,  in 
truth,  more  severely  observed  the  marriage- 
laws  than  I  had  either  promised  or  hoped. 
Directly  one  hath  submitted  to  an  obligation, 
one  must  keep  one's  neck  under  the  yoke  of 
common  duty,  or,  at  least,  one  must  try  to  do 
so.  For  if  one  doth  not  always  fulfil  one's 
duty,  at  least  one  must  always  love  it  ;  and 
one  must  recognise  the  treachery  of  marrying 
without  espousing  one  another.  .  .  .  Marriage 
hath  for  its  share,  usefulness,  justice,  honour, 
and  constancy — a  flat  pleasure  but  a  universal 
one.  Love  is  founded  upon  delight  alone, 
and  giveth  it,  truly,  of  a  kind  more  poignant, 
more  caressive,  more  vital.1 

'  A  man  doth  not  marry  for  himself,  what- 
ever people  say  ;  he  marrieth,  quite  as  much, 
if  not  more,  for  his  posterity  and  his  family. 
The  uses  and  interests  of  marriage  concern  our 

1  £ssais,  iii.  5  :   '  Sur  des  vers  de  Virgile.' 


36         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

race,  they  reach  far  beyond  ourselves.  Never- 
theless, I  like  the  fashion  of  arranging  marriages 
by  a  third  hand  rather  than  by  one's  own — by 
the  judgment  of  others,  not  by  oneself.  How 
far  is  all  this  from  the  conventional  love  affair ! ' 
.  .  .  CA  happy  marriage,  if  there  be  such, 
rejecteth  the  company  and  conditions  of  love.' l 

'  Marriage  is  a  bargain  full  of  so  many 
thorny  circumstances,  that  it  is  hard  for  the 
will  of  a  woman  to  keep  to  it  long,  with  her 
whole  self.  The  married  state  of  men  is  a 
little  better  than  that  of  women,  yet  even 
they  find  it  a  hard  enough  business.' 2 

Montaigne  barely  tried  to  clear  the  thorns  for 
his  wife.  Chivalry  was  not  what  he  made  for. 
He  gave  her  a  free  hand,  but  a  dull  existence. 

'  The  most  useful  and  honourable  knowledge 
and  occupation  for  the  mother  of  a  family  is 
knowledge  concerning  her  household.  .  .  . 
Experience  hath  taught  me  to  demand  of  a 
married  woman,  above  all  other  virtues,  the 
virtue  of  household  economy.  I  give  her 
scope,  for  by  my  absence  I  leave  all  domestic 
government  in  her  hands.  In  more  homes 
than  one  I  see — and  I  see  it  with  anger — that 
Monsieur  comes  back  about  noon  in  the  sulks, 

1  Essais,  iii.  5  :  '  Sui-  des  vers  de  Virgile.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  35  :  '  De  trois  bonnes  femmes.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         37 

boiling  over  with  business  worries,  to  find 
Madame  still  doing  her  hair  and  dressing  up 
in  her  closet.  That  is  a  fashion  only  for 
queens.  ...  It  is  absurd  and  unjust  that  the 
idleness  of  our  women  should  be  nourished  on 
our  sweat  and  our  labour.  If  the  husband 
provide  the  substance,  Nature  herself  demands 
that  woman  should  provide  the  form.  .  .  .' 
'  Marriage  meaneth  a  kind  of  converse  which 
easily  cooleth  through  propinquity — a  con- 
verse which  is  harmed  by  assiduity.  Every 
strange  woman  seemeth  unto  us  a  comely 
woman  ;  and  every  man  knoweth  by  experi- 
ence that  the  continual  sight  of  one  another 
cannot  give  the  pleasure  which  cometh  of 
taking  and  leaving  by  fits  and  starts.  As  for 
me,  these  interruptions  fill  me  with  a  fresh 
love  towards  my  family,  and  restore  me  in 
pleasanter  fashion  to  the  groove  of  my  home. 
.  .  .  And  I  know  that  kindliness  hath  arms 
long  enough  to  stretch  and  join  across  from 
one  corner  of  the  world  to  another — more 
especially  this  married  sort  of  kindliness,  in 
the  which  there  existeth  a  constant  intercom- 
munication of  services  which  awaken  obliga- 
tion and  remembrance.1 

Montaigne,   it  will   be  seen,   took  various 

1  Essais,  iii.  9  :  '  DC  la  VaniteV 


38         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

measures  to  avoid  this  '  continual  sight  of  one 
another,'  chief  among  them  the  tower  that  he 
built  for  himself,  into  which  his  wife  might  not 
enter.  That  she  might  find  his  restrictions  te- 
dious never  troubled  his  head.  He  graciously 
allowed  her,  it  is  true,  to  dabble  in  a  little 
village  doctoring.  In  his  own  home,  he 
wrote,  it  happened  that  his  wife  had  a  store  of 
c  paltry '  drugs  and  medicines  for  the  benefit 
of  the  people,  and  she  'used  the  same 
medicine  for  fifty  different  maladies  ' — 
medicines  that  she  would  not  take  herself; 
then  she  'triumphed  in  the  wonderful  results.'1 

From  all  this,  however,  it  is  hard  to  gather 
their  permanent  relations  to  one  another. 
That  they  were  not  warm  is  apparent.  When 
Montaigne  says  that  the  best  treatment  for 
feminine  grievances  is  indulgent  but  unremit- 
ting silence,  the  advice  is  too  particular  not  to 
be  personal.  And  so  is  such  a  comment  as — 

'  Folk  say  that  Gascon  heads  have  this  pre- 
rogative— that  you  can  more  easily  make  a 
man  bite  hot  iron,  than  make  a  Gascon 
woman  loose  her  teeth  from  an  opinion 
that  she  has  conceived  in  temper.  And  blows 
and  compulsion  exasperate  her/  2 

1  Essais,  ii.  37  :  '  De  la  Ressemblance  des  enfants  aux  peres.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  32  :  'Defence  de  S£neque  et  de  Plutarquc.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         39 

Madame  de  Montaigne  was  probably  some- 
thing of  a  scold,  and  was  undeterred  by  her 
husband's  formidable  speechlessness — c  Very 
virtuous,  though  not  always  able  to  listen  to 
virtue/  to  quote  his  words.  'The  fault  is 
committed,  God  forgive  me  ! '  was  an  entry 
said  to  be  in  his  diary,  in  which,  it  is  reported, 
he  confessed  that  in  one  of  the  Essays^  '  for  this 
once  only  he  had  taken  his  wife  for  a  subject.' 

As  time  went  on  they  evidently  got  used 
to  one  another  and  arrived  at  a  modus  vivendi. 
At  any  rate,  we  find  him  dedicating  to  her 
La  Boetie's  French  version  of  Plutarch's 
'  Letter  of  Consolation  to  his  Wife,'  a  fact 
which  has  significance,  as  it  followed  close 
upon  the  death  of  their  eldest  child.  *  My 
wife,'  it  runs,  c  you  understand  well  enough 
that  according  to  present  fashions  it  is  not  the 
right  thing  for  a  man  of  the  world  still  to 
court  and  to  caress  you  ;  for  men  say  that  a 
clever  man  can  quite  well  take  a  woman  to 
himself,  but  that  it  is  a  fool's  part  to  marry 
her.  Let  them  talk  ;  I,  for  my  part,  cling 
to  the  simple  ways  of  old  times.  It  is  for 
love  of  them  that  I  trim  my  hair  as  I  do.  ... 
Let  us  live — you  and  I,  my  wife — in  the  old 
French  fashion.' 

1  Essais,  ii.  31  :  'De  la  Colere.' 


40         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

He  follows  this  by  reminding  her  of 
La  Boetie's  writings  ;  and  then,  c  a  wish  took 
me,'  he  continued,  c  to  communicate  them  to 
my  friends.  And  because  I  have,  I  think, 
none  more  familiar  than  you,  I  send  you  the 
consolatory  letter  of  Plutarch  to  his  wife  .  .  . 
vexed  as  I  am  that  fortune  hath  made  this  gift 
so  appropriate  to  you.  ...  I  leave  to  Plutarch 
the  office  of  consoling  you  and  of  showing 
you  what  is  your  duty.' l 

It  was  a  softer  moment  than  usual  when 
Montaigne,  the  witness  of  her  sorrow,  wrote 
these  words.  But,  at  other  times,  he  was  not 
without  consideration  for  her.  Some  years  later, 
when  he  had  a  fall  from  his  horse,  and  she 
hearing  the  news,  hastened  out  to  meet  him, 
and  beheld  him  stretched  helpless  upon  a  litter, 
his  first  thought  on  returning  to  consciousness 
was  that  a  horse  should  be  provided  for  her, 
lest  the  rough  road  should  fatigue  her  feet. 

She  was  no  doubt  an  excellent  nurse.  But 
she  was  also  evidently  a  conventional  woman, 
and  Montaigne,  although  he  demanded  de- 
corum, had  no  use  for  conventionality.  When 
he  found  that  his  only  daughter,  Lenor,  had 
the  same  ordinary  disposition,  he  abandoned 
her  education  to  her  mother,  leaving  every- 

1  Lettres  de  Montaigne  :  '  A  ma  femme.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         41 

thing  in  her  hands,  excepting  the  matter  of 
truthfulness.  Lenor's  franchise  he  looked  after 
himself.  But  it  must  be  admitted  that  he 
had  no  natural  paternal  feeling.  Six  girls 
were  born  to  him,  of  whom  only  one  survived 
infancy.  When  he  was  asked  how  many 
children  he  had  had,  he  could  not  remember, 
and  he  misdated  the  death  of  his  eldest 
daughter.  '  I  know  nothing,'  he  says,  c  of  that 
strong  tie  which  is  said  to  bind  men  to  the 
future  by  the  children  who  transmit  their 
name  and  their  honour.  .  .  .  Already,  of 
myself,  I  cling  only  too  much  to  this  life  and 
to  the  world  ;  I  am  quite  contented  to  be  in 
the  hands  of  fortune  by  reason  of  all  the  essential 
facts  of  being,  without  otherwise  prolonging 
her  jurisdiction  over  me  ;  and  I  have  never 
thought  that  to  be  without  children  was  a 
lack  which  would  make  life  less  complete  or 
less  contented.  The  vocation  of  sterility 
certainly  has  its  advantages/  1 

'  Now  if  we  grant  this  simple  fact,  that  we 
love  our  children  because  we  have  engendered 
them,  wherefore  we  call  them  our  other  selves, 
it  seemeth  as  if  there  were  another  kind  of  pro- 
geny which  cometh  forth  from  us,  the  which 
is  of  no  less  value.  For  the  beings  that  we 

1  Essats,  iii.  9  :  *  DC  la  Vanit£' 


42         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

engender  by  our  souls,  the  birth  of  our  spirit, 
our  courage,  our  intelligence,  are  produced  by 
a  part  of  us  nobler  than  the  body.  They  are 
still  more  our  own  ;  in  this  act  of  generation 
we  are  both  father  and  mother  to  them.  This 
offspring  costs  us  much  dearer  and  bringeth 
us  in  more  honour — that  is  if  they  show  any- 
thing of  good.  The  worth  of  our  other  chil- 
dren is  a  great  deal  more  theirs  than  ours,  the 
part  we  have  in  them  is  a  very  slight  one  ; 
but  of  these  others,  all  the  beauty  and  the 
grace  and  the  price  are  our  own.  And  so  they 
represent  and  record  us  by  far  more  vitally 
than  the  rest.'1 

There  is  no  apathy  here.  Montaigne  leaves 
us  in  no  doubt  about  his  love  for  his  works — 
the  children  of  his  brain.  Would  he  have 
said  the  same  things  of  his  other  children  if 
he  had  had  a  son  ? 

It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that  when  he 
was  on  his  travels  among  the  Alps,  his  only 
comment  upon  a  certain  walk  that  he  took 
was  that  it  would  not  have  been  too  much 
for  his  little  girl.  To  remember  her  thus  she 
must  have  pleased  him.  But  he  did  not  take 
an  interest  in  her.  His  interest  was  all  in 
mind  and  character  ;  he  seemed  too  intel- 

1  Essais,  ii.  8:  '  De  1'Affection  des  peres  aux  enfants.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         43 

lectual  to  be  a  father — too  intellectual  and 
too  lazy,  for  he  could  make  no  effort  over  his 
natural  inclinations.  Perhaps,  too,  he  had  too 
poor  an  idea  of  woman  to  draw  much  out  of 
a  daughter.  Indulgent  contempt  does  not 
make  a  very  fruitful  atmosphere,  and  it  was 
with  indulgent  contempt  that  Montaigne  sur- 
rounded his  womankind.  This,  not  confi- 
dence, was  the  motive  which  prompted  him 
to  leave  Lenor's  upbringing  to  her  mother. 

'  It  is  only  reasonable,'  he  writes,  '  to  allow 
the  administration  of  affairs  to  mothers  before 
their  children  reach  the  age  prescribed  by  law 
at  which  they  themselves  can  be  responsible. 
But  that  father  would  have  reared  them  ill 
who  could  not  hope  that  in  their  maturity 
they  would  have  more  wisdom  and  more  com- 
petence than  his  wife.'1 

'  We  train  them  [girls]  from  childhood  up- 
wards, for  the  enterprises  of  love.  Their  grace, 
their  dress,  their  knowledge,  their  speech,  all 
their  education,  concerns  this  end,  and  this 
alone.  Their  governesses  impress  nothing  on 
them  but  the  face  of  this  love — even  when 
they  do  so  thus  continually  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  them  a  distaste  for  it.  My  daughter, 
the  only  child  I  have,  is  now  of  an  age  to 

1  Essazs,  ii.  8  :  *  De  1' Affection  dcs  peres  aux  enfants.' 


44         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

marry.  She  is  of  a  slow  constitution,  thin  and 
namby-pamby.  She  has  been  brought  up  in 
this  fashion  by  her  mother,  and  is  only  now 
just  beginning  to  put  away  the  simple  follies 
of  childhood.  The  other  day,  while  I  was 
present,  she  was  reading  a  French  book,  and 
the  word  fouteau  turned  up — the  name  of  a 
well-known  tree.1  Her  governess  stopped  her 
rather  roughly  and  made  her  slur  over  this 
difficult  place.  I  left  her  alone,  that  I  might 
not  disturb  their  rules  and  regulations,  for  I 
never  meddle  with  this  government  of  theirs. 
Feminine  policy  has  a  mysterious  course,  and 
we  must  just  let  them  go  on  their  way  ;  but 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  the  conversation  of 
twenty  lackeys  would  not  have  done  as  much 
to  imprint  upon  her  imagination  the  under- 
standing and  the  use  of  these  sealed  syllables 
as  the  reprimand  of  that  old  woman.'2 

Montaigne  would  always  have  preferred 
the  company  of  lackeys  to  that  of  the  old 
woman,  for  his  daughter  as  well  as  for  himself. 
Had  she  been  more  of  a  character,  she  might 
have  interested  him.  We  know  little  of  her 
later,  excepting  that  after  her  father's  death 
she  gave  all  his  books  to  the  Grand- Vicar  of  the 
Archbishopric  of  Auch,  a  detail  which  does  not 

1  Beech  tree.         2  Essais,  iii.  5  :  «  Sur  des  vers  dc  Virgile.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         45 

raise  her  in  our  esteem.  She  was  probably  for- 
mal and  correct.  And  yet  in  spite  of  the  father's 
cold  words,  it  is  a  pleasant  picture  :  that  of  the 
panelled  parlour,  and  the  dull  young  girl  reading 
her  book,  and  the  stiff  governess,  probably  most 
anxious  to  conceal  her  ignorance  before  Mon- 
taigne ;  and  the  philosopher  himself,  leaning 
back  in  his  armchair,  dressed  in  black  (he 
wore  nothing  but  black  or  white),  his  fur- 
trimmed  cap  upon  his  head,  Virgil  or  Plu- 
tarch's Lives  in  his  hand,  as  he  watched  from 
under  his  eyes,  and  kept  his  formidable  smile 
— his  yet  more  formidable  silence. 

After  all,  if  Montaigne's  marriage  was  not 
ideal,  it  was  not  entirely  his  fault.  Had  he 
known  nobler  or  more  intelligent  women,  his 
standard  would  probably  have  altered.  His 
friendship  at  the  end  of  his  life  with  the  intel- 
lectual Mademoiselle  de  Gournay,  his  fille 
d* alliance ^  although  it  involved  the  flattery  of 
a  young  girl's  adulation  of  a  great  man  already 
growing  old,  was  not  devoid  of  significance. 
Nor  was  he  without  his  notions  of  happy 
marriage  :  for  him  it  would  always  have  lain 
in  friendship.  But  women,  he  complains,  are 
incapable  of  this  sort  of  feeling. 

c  Apart  from  the  fact  that  marriage  is  a 
bargain,  the  which  hath  nothing  free  but  the 


46         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

entrance  into  it  ;  apart  from  the  time  that  it 
lasteth,  its  compulsory  character,  its  dependence 
on  things  other  than  our  wills  (and  it  is  a 
bargain  which  is  struck  for  ends  beyond 
itself);  apart  from  all  this,  I  say,  there  are  a 
thousand  unforeseen  rockets  to  ward  off,  each 
enough  to  snap  the  thread  and  disturb  the 
course  of  a  warm  affection.  In  marriage 
such  things  happen  where,  in  friendship, 
intercourse  concerneth  friendship's  self  alone. 
But,  truth  to  say,  the  normal  woman  is  not 
capable  of  the  converse — the  companionship, 
which  is  the  nurse  of  that  holy  bond  ;  nor 
doth  her  soul  seem  strong  enough  to  sustain  the 
pressure  of  a  knot  so  close  and  so  enduring. 
Otherwise,  if  there  could  but  exist  a  free  and 
voluntary  relationship,  wherein  not  only  the 
spirit  would  have  entire  enjoyment,  but  also 
the  body  .  .  .  wherein  the  whole  man  would 
be  engaged  —  if  this  might  be,  then  it  is 
certain  that  friendship  would  thereby  be  made 
stronger  and  fuller.  But  we  have  no  instance 
that  this  sex  hath  ever  achieved  anything  of 
the  kind.'1 

And  yet,  if  she  did,  c  No  woman  who  had 
relished  the  taste  thereof  would  fill  the  post 
of  mistress  to  her  husband.  If  she  be  lodged 

1  Essais,  i.  28  :  'De  TAmitie.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         47 

in  his  affection  as  his  wife,  she  is  far  more 
safely  and  more  honourably  lodged.  .  .  .  The 
fact  that  happy  marriage  is  so  rare  is  a  sign  of 
its  value.  When  we  fashion  it  finely  and  take 
it  the  right  way,  there  is  no  nobler  institution 
in  society.' l 

With  his  strange  power  of  intellectual  im- 
partiality, Montaigne  could  even  look  at 
women's  circumstances  with  justice  ;  he  was 
almost  a  champion  of  their  rights. 

'  Women,'  he  says,  '  are  not  the  least  in  the 
wrong  when  they  refuse  the  rules  of  life 
obtaining  in  the  world  ;  it  is  the  men  who 
made  these  laws  without  them.' 2 

c  Male  and  female  are  cast  in  the  same 
mould  ;  excepting  for  habits  and  institutions, 
the  difference  is  not  considerable.  Plato 
invites  the  one  and  the  other  indifferently 
to  companionship  in  all  studies,  all  forms  of 
exercise  and  offices,  all  vocations  in  his  Re- 
public, whether  warlike  or  peaceful  ;  and  the 
philosopher  Antisthenes  admitted  no  distinc- 
tion between  their  virtue  and  ours.  It  is 
much  easier  to  accuse  one  sex  than  to  excuse 
another.' 3 

To  be  just  is  the  next  best  thing  to  being 

1  Essais,  iii.  5  :  '  Sur  des  vers  dc  Virgile.' 

2  Ibid.  3  Ibid, 


48         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

chivalrous,  and  Montaigne  was  eminently  just. 
He  was  never  a  bully  ;  what  is  more,  he  was 
nearly  always  good  tempered.  But  when  he 
lost  control,  he  lost  it  handsomely.  'When 
I  get  angry,  I  get  violently  angry,  but  as 
quickly  and  secretly  as  I  can.  .  .  .  I  go  about 
scattering  indiscriminately  all  the  insulting 
words  I  can  find,  never  seeing  whether  my 
arrows  hit  pertinently  where  I  compute  they 
would  hurt  most — for  I  usually  use  nothing 
but  my  tongue.  ...  In  proportion  as  age 
maketh  my  temper  sharper,  I  study  how  I  may 
resist  it,  and  I  shall  contrive  henceforth,  if  I 
can,  so  that  I  become  the  less  morose  and 
hard  to  please  the  more  excuse  and  inclination 
I  have  to  be  so.'1 

With  his  servants,  he  tells  us,  he  occasion- 
ally became  deliberately  enraged,  c  for  the  sake 
of  the  proper  discipline  of  the  household  ' ; 
but  such  gusts  passed  in  a  moment.  He  made 
a  rule  of  '  economising  anger  instead  of  lavish- 
ing it  at  any  price,  for  to  do  that  taketh  away 
its  weight  and  its  effect  ;  shrill  screaming, 
grown  common  .  .  .  becometh  a  habit,  and 
every  one  treateth  it  with  contempt.  If  you 
cry  out  upon  a  servant  for  a  theft,  he  will  not 
mind  at  all  if  he  hath  heard  you  use  the  same 

l£ssais,  ii.  31  :  '  De  la  Cotere.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN        49 

tone  a  hundred  times  when  he  hath  only 
placed  a  seat  wrongly,  or  when  he  hath  not 
rinsed  a  glass  out  well.  And  people  must 
never  get  vaguely  angry  ;  they  must  take  care 
that  reproof  reacheth  the  person  of  whom 
they  complain  ;  for  usually  they  begin  to 
shout  at  him  before  he  hath  come  into  their 
presence,  and  they  go  on  shouting  for  an  age 
after  he  hath  left  it.' l 

He  was  an  indulgent  master,  probably  rather 
lax  about  the  servants'  conduct,  so  long  as 
they  did  their  work  well.  '  I  make  few  in- 
quiries,' he  said,  c  about  a  footman's  morals,  I 
find  out  whether  he  is  industrious.  And  I  am 
not  so  much  afraid  of  a  muleteer  who  gambleth 
as  of  one  who  is  an  imbecile  ;  or  of  a  cook 
who  sweareth  as  of  one  who  is  ignorant.' 2 

And  he  trusted  his  servants — more  from 
indolence,  perhaps,  than  from  any  confidence 
he  had  in  their  honour  : 

'  Whoso  hath  charge  of  my  purse  on  a 
journey,  hath  entire  charge,  free  from  control. 
...  I  lend  a  hand  to  my  own  ignorance, 
and  purposely  keep  a  confused  and  uncertain 
account  of  my  money  ;  up  to  a  certain  point 
I  am  glad  to  feel  doubtful  on  this  matter. 

1  Essais,  ii.  31  :  '  De  la  Colere.' 

2  Essais,  i.  28  :  <  De  1'AmitieV 


50         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

One  must  leave  a  little  room  for  the  disloyalty 
or  imprudence  of  one's  valet.  If  we  ourselves 
have  enough  money  left,  in  all,  to  do  what  we 
want  .  .  .  we  can  leave  some  margin  for  his 
benefit — the  portion  of  the  gleaner.' l 

He  therefore  had  as  few  attendants  as  was 
then  possible  ;  a  retinue  oppressed  him. 

4  The  most  foolish  figure  that  a  man  can 
cut  in  his  own  house  is  when  we  see  him 
hampered  by  the  arrangements  of  his  house- 
hold— whispering  in  the  ear  of  one  footman, 
threatening  another  with  his  eye.  A  house- 
hold should  glide  on  by  imperceptible  means 
and  keep  an  ordinary  course. 

c  To  my  mind,  if  we  make  any  mention  to 
our  guests  of  the  hospitality  that  we  are  giving 
them — whether  to  boast  or  to  apologise — we 
are  guilty  of  ugly  manners.' 2 

Of  Montaigne's  household,  hospitality,  and 
habits  we  probably  know  more  homely  detail 
than  we  do  concerning  those  of  any  private 
man,  excepting,  perhaps,  Dr.  Johnson.  It  is 
a  fascinating  game  to  imagine  these  two 
apostles  of  common  sense  discussing,  in  Elysian 
fields,  the  ideal  manner  of  life.  They  were 
at  opposite  ends  of  the  pole.  What  would 

1  Essais,  in.  9  :  'De  la  Vanit£} 

2  Ibid. 


i: 

7..  .;f^;;  ••:?  :  ,  ,•-;;, 

THE  TOWER  OF  MONTAIGNE'S  HOUSE  IN  1823. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         51 

Johnson  have  said  to  Montaigne's  tower  ? 
But  Montaigne's  tower  was  the  centre  of  his 
whole  scheme  of  existence  ;  it  made  his  house 
a  symbol  of  his  creed  ;  to  know  him,  we 
must  begin  by  entering  it. 

c  Every  man/  he  wrote,  '  should  have  a 
back-shop  all  his  own  ...  in  the  which  he 
can  establish  his  true  liberty,  his  chief  refuge, 
his  best  solitude.  And  here  it  is  that  he  must 
hold  his  ordinary  intercourse  with  himself.' l 

'  Miserable,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  is  he 
who  hath  no  place  where  he  can  be  at  home 
to  himself ;  where  he  can  privily  court  him- 
self ;  where  he  can  hide  himself.  To  me, 
it  is  much  more  bearable  to  be  always  alone 
than  never.'  2 

So,  on  one  side  of  his  dwelling-house,  he 
built  himself  a  tower  to  which  he  could 
retire  to  live  at  ease  ;  and  here  he  spent  most 
of  his  days.  The  average  man,  when  he  is 
bored  by  family  existence,  goes  into  the  world, 
and  distracts  himself  by  politics  or  business. 
Montaigne  said  that  he  had  used  all  his  store 
of  ambition  for  La  Boetie,  and  had  none  left 
for  himself.  But  the  truth  was  that  he  was 
naturally  indolent,  and  even  had  he  not  had  a 

1  Essais,  i.  39  :  *  De  la  Solitude.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  3  :  '  De  trois  Commerces.' 


52         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

distaste  for  affairs,  it  suited  him  better  to  have 
one  minute's  walk  to  his  refuge  than  to  seek 
it  outside  with  any  effort. 

Nobody  might  enter  his  tower,  least  of  all 
his  wife.  As  for  friends,  no  doubt  his  cronies 
and  fellow-scholars  were  permitted  to  find  him 
there,  but  his  visitors  had  to  come  on  his  own 
terms.  He  never  escorted  them  to  the  door. 
He  knew,  he  said,  that  they  liked  it,  but  it 
went  against  his  grain,  and  he  thought  it 
better  to  offend  people  whom  he  only  saw 
occasionally,  than  to  offend  himself  every  day. 
On  the  third  floor  of  his  tower  he  had  a 
bedroom  in  which  to  rest,  or  spend  the  night, 
should  he  desire  to  escape  from  home.  On 
the  ground  floor  was  his  chapel,  so  that  he 
could  hear  Mass  thence  in  comfort,  as  he  lay 
in  bed  above.  There  was  a  picture  here  of 
St.  Michael  and  the  Dragon — the  picture 
which,  no  doubt,  supplied  the  opportunist, 
Montaigne,  with  his  analogy,  when  he  wrote 
about  his  willingness  to  carry  a  candle  in  one 
hand  for  St.  Michael,  and  a  candle  for  the 
Dragon  in  the  other.  But  it  was  the  floor 
above  the  chapel — the  second  floor — which 
was  the  important  one.  This  was  the  floor 
of  the  library — the  raison  d'etre  of  the  c  back- 
shop.'  Another  small  chamber  led  out  of  it, 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         53 

a  warmer  place  where  Montaigne  could  avoid 
draughts,  an  annex  of  the  larger  room,  added 
later.  And  yet  it  was  more  than  an  annex — 
it  was  a  complement.  We  must  look  at  it 
before  we  linger  in  the  library — it  has  its  own 
significance  ;  it  was  Montaigne's  closet  of 
recreation  ;  it  represented  his  tastes.  The 
walls  were  decorated  with  such  works  as 
pleased  him  :  pictures  of  subjects  taken  from 
Ovid — of  Venus,  Mars,  and  Vulcan,  of  Cymon 
and  Pero  ;  over  the  door  was  Venus  reposing, 
below  it  a  mysterious  picture  of  two  ships, 
the  one  almost  foundering,  the  other  in  full 
sail,  while  some  swimmers  are  making  towards 
the  shore.  Might  not  this  doorway  with  its 
paintings  stand  for  the  entrance  into  Mon- 
taigne's thought — for  its  symbol  ?  Pleasure  at 
rest  in  security,  presiding  over  the  ship  of 
philosophy — Hedonist  philosophy — which  is 
making  safe  way  over  the  sea  ;  while  its  unwise 
fellow-ship — the  ship,  who  knows  of  what 
dream  or  ideal  ? — sinks  with  all  its  crew, 
unless  it  be  for  a  few  desperate  strugglers  who 
try  for  land  they  may  never  reach.  Perhaps 
the  other  ornaments  of  Montaigne's  cabinet, 
a  collection  of  barbaric  instruments  of  music, 
add  the  finishing  touch  to  the  image,  and 
stand  for  that  untiring  curiosity  about  every 


54         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

form  of  life — the  stranger  the  better — which 
was  an  integral  part  of  Montaigne's  code. 
They  were  more  characteristic  than  the  in- 
scription that  went  round  the  room,  for  the  in- 
scription was  what  Montaigne  thought  himself 
to  be,  not  what  he  was.  c  In  the  year  of  our 
Lord,  1571,'  it  ran,  c  at  the  age  of  thirty-eight, 
on  the  last  day  of  February,  being  the  anni- 
versary of  his  birth,  Monsieur  de  Montaigne, 
long  weary  of  the  service  of  the  Court  and  of 
public  employments  [this  meant  no  more  than 
his  magistracy  and  two  or  three  public 
missions,  besides  a  few  visits  to  Royalty — for 
he  was  not  made  a  mayor  till  eleven  years 
later],  'while  still  in  his  full  vigour,  betook 
himself  to  the  bosom  of  the  learned  Virgins, 
where,  if  the  fates  permit,  he  may  pass  in  calm 
and  freedom  from  all  cares  what  little  shall 
yet  remain  of  his  allotted  time,  now  more 
than  half  run  out.  This  his  ancestral  abode 
and  sweet  retreat  he  hath  consecrated  to  his 
freedom,  tranquillity,  and  leisure.' 1 

So  much  for  the  closet.  We  may  close  its 
door  and  enter  the  library.  Here,  over  the 
shelves  of  choice  editions,  a  thousand  in  all — 
tooled  volumes,  red,  brown,  and  gold — there 
ran,  round  the  frieze,  a  different  legend — one 

1  Montaigne  :  Dowden. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         55 

from  the  heart.  This  hall  of  letters,  this  home 
of  Montaigne's  mind,  was  dominated  by  the 
memory  of  La  Boetie.  '  Inasmuch,'  it  stood 
written, c  as  he  desired  that  there  should  be  some 
unique  memorial  of  his  most  sweet,  most  dear, 
and  most  close  companion,  than  whom  our 
age  hath  seen  none  better,  none  more  learned, 
none  more  graceful,  none  more  absolutely 
perfect,  Michel  de  Montaigne,  unhappily 
bereft  of  so  beloved  a  guardian  of  his  life, 
mindful  of  their  mutual  affection  and  of  the 
kindly  feeling  which  united  them,  hath  set 
up,  since  nought  more  expressive  could  be 
found,  this  learned  shelf,  a  special  laboratory 
for  the  mind,  in  the  which  is  his  delight.' 

The  bare  rafters  above  the  frieze  were  a 
library  in  themselves,  a  book  of  aphorisms 
which  summed  up  Montaigne's  mind,  for 
they  were  covered  by  fifty-four  sayings  from 
Homer,  Plato,  St.  Paul,  the  Psalms,  Ecclesi- 
astes,  Epictetus,  Herodotus,  Terence,  Persius, 
Horace,  Pliny,  Lucretius,  Martial,  and 
L'Hopital,  the  one  modern  among  them. 
'  Who  knoweth  if  what  men  call  dying  be 
not  living,  what  men  call  living  be  not 
dying  ? '  is  one  sentence  ;  *  The  for  and  the 
against  are  both  possible,'  is  another.  And 
here  are  a  few  more  from  the  collection  : — 


56         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

'  Men  are  perturbed  not  by  things  them- 
selves, but  by  the  opinions  they  have  of 
things.' 

'  The  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  like  the 
great  deep.' 

'  Be  not  wise  in  your  own  conceit  :  God 
made  man  like  to  a  shadow,  of  which  who 
shall  judge  when  the  sun  hath  set  ? ' 

c  Be  not  wise  above  that  which  is  usual, 
but  be  soberly  wise.' 

c  Guiding  ourselves  by  custom  and  the 
senses.' 

c  Rejoice  in  those  things  that  are  present — 
all  else  is  beyond  thee.' 

£  It  may  be  and  it  may  not  be.' 

'  I  determine  nothing.  I  do  not  compre- 
hend things,  I  suspend  judgment,  I  examine.' 

Or  this  briefer  summary  of  true  agnosti- 
cism : 

'  In  equilibrium.' 

Or  these  words  from  Terence  : 

'  I  am  a  man,  and  nothing  human  is  alien 
to  me.' 

The  books  that  La  Boetie  had  left  him 
formed  the  nucleus  of  the  library  ;  the  rest, 
and  they  were  many,  had  been  added.  They 
were  scattered  we  know  not  when,  and  only 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         57 

seventy-six  have  been  re-discovered,  among 
them  Ctesar's  Commentaries  with  Montaigne's 
name  inside  it,  bought  for  ninepence  on  the 
quays  of  Paris.  Some  of  them  are  annotated 
by  him,  in  some  he  has  written  a  final  criti- 
cism. Nearly  half  of  them  are  history  ; 
thirty-one  are  works  in  Latin,  two  in  Greek. 
There  is  a  large  proportion  of  modern  poets : 
Baif  (he  put  great  faith  in  the  Pleiade), 
Petrarch,  Boccaccio.  There  must  also  have 
been  an  Ariosto — his  fine  comparison  of  him 
with  Virgil  proves  his  knowledge.  There 
were  probably,  too,  manuscripts  of  ballads — 
of  the  '  popular,  purely  national  poetry  '  which 
has,  he  says,  '  graces  and  simplicities  in  the 
which  it  may  compare  with  the  chief  beau- 
ties of  the  perfect  poetry  of  art/  1  For  medio- 
crity alone  he  had  no  houseroom.  '  Mediocre 
poetry,  which  sticks  between  the  two,  is  a 
thing  for  scorn,  dishonoured  and  worthless.'  2 
.  .  . '  We  have  many  more  poets,'  he  adds, c  than 
judges  and  interpreters  of  poetry.  It  is  easier 
to  make  it  than  to  know  it.'3 

And  certainly  there  was  a  Rabelais ;  he  knew 
his  writing  well  and  misunderstood  him.    Was 

1  Essais,  i.  54  :  l  Des  vaines  subtilites.' 

2  Ibid. 

3  Essazs,  i.  37  :  '  Du  jeune  Caton.' 


58         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

Montaigne  too  near  him  to  see  his  meaning  ? 
Like  Ronsard,  he  treated  him  as  a  buffoon. 
Other  authors,  more  admired  by  him,  had  evi- 
dently a  place  in  his  shelves*  He  was  versed  in 
modern  history,  had  read  Guicciardini  and  found 
his  cynicism  shallow,  was  steeped  in  Corn- 
mines  and  had  unbounded  admiration  for  his 
moral  force.  But  his  favourites  were  always 
among  the  classics.  Plutarch,  Seneca,  Virgil, 
were  the  three  gods  of  his  adoration  ;  Homer 
was  almost  their  rival,  Ctesar's  Commentaries  ran 
them  close,  and  Terence  and  Lucan  followed 
after.  Tacitus  was  to  him  '  a  nursery-garden 
of  discourses  political  and  ethical '  ; l  Cicero 
he  disliked,  because  he  was  eloquent  for  the 
sake  of  eloquence. 

But  Montaigne  was  at  his  best  with  Plu- 
tarch and  with  Virgil.  Plutarch's  Lives  were 
his  Bible,  as  far  as  he  had  any  Bible — the 
book  in  which  he  sometimes  recognised  the 
higher  possibilities  of  human  nature.  e  He 
is,'  he  wrote,  '  so  full,  so  universal,  that  on 
every  occasion  he  fits  himself  to  your  business 
and  holds  out  to  you  a  generous  hand — a 
hand  inexhaustible  in  its  gifts  of  wealth  and 
of  beauty.'  2  As  for  Virgil,  he  filled  him  with 

1  Essais,  iii.  8  :  '  De  1'Art  de  conferer.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  5  :  *  Sur  des  vers  de  Virgile.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         59 

a  kind  of  passionate  enchantment.  It  is  curi- 
ous that  Montaigne,  who  had  not  the  poet's 
temperament,  should  have  been  such  an  ardent 
reader  of  poetry.  It  had  the  power  to  carry 
him  away.  Only  '  to  a  low  degree  can  it  be 
judged  by  set  precepts  and  by  art.  But  the 
good,  the  excessive,  the  divine,  is  above  rules 
and  above  reason.  Whoever  looketh  upon  her 
beauty  with  steady,  unwinking  sight,  seeth  her 
no  more  than  he  would  see  the  splendour  of  a 
flash  of  lightning.  She  doth  not  exercise  our 
judgment,  she  ravisheth,  she  ravageth  it.  ... 
From  my  earliest  childhood,  poetry  hath  had 
this  power — the  power  to  pierce  me  through 
and  to  transport  me.' l  And  of  all  the  poets, 
Virgil  '  pierced  '  him  deepest — Virgil,  '  who 
soareth  aloft  with  full-spread  wings,  ever  follow- 
ing his  point  with  a  high  pitch  and  a  strong ' 
— while  Ariosto  (with  whom  he  contrasts 
him)  is  fain,  *  for  fear  his  breath  should  fail 
him,  to  sit  down  at  every  field's  end.'  No 
modern  literary  gourmet  could  be  more  sensi- 
tive than  Montaigne  was  about  Virgil.  He 
brooked  no  banalities.  There  was  nothing 
that  irritated  him  more  than  the  0/6,  que  cest 
beau !  which  generally  followed,  he  says,  the 
reading  of  the  JEneid*  Concerning  all  the 

1  Essais,  i.  37  :  'Dujeune  Caton.' 


60         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

ancients,  indeed,  his  enthusiasm  is  untiring, 
and  his  criticism  of  delicate  penetration.  '  I 
can  see,'  he  writes, c  that  Latin  allureth  me  by 
its  gracious  dignity  more  than  it  hath  the  right 
to  do — -just  as  if  I  were  a  child  or  an  illiterate 
person.' 

And  of  the  Greeks  :  c  Their  writings  do 
not  only  fill  and  satisfy  me,  but  they  .  .  . 
transfix  me  with  admiration.  I  judge  of  their 
beauty  ;  I  behold  it,  if  not  completely,  to  its 
utmost  bounds,  at  least  so  far  that  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  aspire  thereunto.' l 

'  What  glory  can  compare  with  that  of 
Homer  ?  There  is  nothing  which  liveth  on 
the  lips  of  men  like  unto  his  name  and  his 
works  ;  nothing  so  widely  known  and  wel- 
comed as  Troy  and  Helen  and  her  wars,  the 
which  very  likely  never  happened.' 2 

His  judgment  of  these  classics  is  larger  and 
finer  than  it  is  of  later  authors. 

c  The  constant  intercourse  I  hold  with  the 
humours  of  the  ancients,  and  the  image  of 
these  rich  spirits  of  bygone  times,  doth  (he 
writes),  perchance,  disgust  me  with  other 
people  and  with  myself.'3 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  '  De  la  Presomption.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  36  :   '  Des  plus  excellents  hommes.' 

3  Essais,  ii.  17  :  '  De  la  Preemption. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         61 

c  When  I  put  myself  by  the  side  of  those 
men,  and  see  how  feeble  and  puny  I  am,  how 
heavy,  how  asleep,  I  feel  pity — or  contempt — 
for  myself.  And  yet  there  is  one  thing  that 
gratifieth  me — that  my  opinions  have  the 
honour  very  often  to  coincide  with  theirs, 
and  that  if  I  see,  at  least  I  see  with  their 
vision,  however  far  I  lag  behind  them.  And 
then  I  have  the  power — not  vouchsafed  to 
every  man — to  know  the  extreme  difference 
that  existeth  between  them  and  me.  .  .  .  He 
must  have  very  strong  legs  who  undertaketh 
to  walk  abreast  of  those  people.' l 

c  I  knew  the  Capitol  and  the  map  thereof 
before  I  knew  the  Louvre  ;  and  the  Tiber 
before  the  Seine.  I  have  borne  in  mind  the 
circumstances  and  fortunes  of  Lucullus,  Me- 
tellus,  and  Scipio  more  continually  than  those 
of  any  men  now  among  us.  ...  In  truth, 
my  humour  leadeth  me  to  be  more  zealous 
to  serve  the  dead  ;  they  can  no  longer  help 
themselves,  and  so,  it  seemeth  to  me,  they 
need  my  help  all  the  more.  .  .  .  Since  I  find 
myself  of  no  use  to  this  mine  own  age,  I 
throw  myself  back  upon  that  other/2 

The    ancients    were    no    dead    authors    to 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  9  :  *  De  la  Vanit£' 


62         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

Montaigne.  In  this,  he  is  a  modern  of  the 
moderns.  His  love,  his  knowledge  of  them 
were  so  vivid  that  they  nourished  him,  became 
part  of  his  daily  life.  He  used  them  not 
remotely,  but  colloquially,  borrowing  their 
words  and  translating  them  into  the  idiom 
of  his  day.  This,  to  him,  seemed  their  true 
use,  such  plagiarism  his  right  as  their  lover. 
Plagiarism,  indeed,  did  not  exist  for  him  any 
more  than  it  did  for  Shakespeare.  But  Mon- 
taigne took  more  consciously  than  Shake- 
speare, and  professed  plagiarism  as  his  creed. 
He  passed  his  own  laws.  It  was  his  business 
to  loot  only  what  he  could  assimilate  and  thus 
transform  and  make  his  own. 

'  I  fly  here  and  there,  pecking  off  from 
books  the  sentences  that  please  me,  not  to 
keep  them,  for  I  have  no  cupboards,  but  to 
transport  them/  l 

'  He  (the  reader)  must  drink  up  their 
moisture,  not  learn  their  precepts.  He  may, 
if  he  likes,  forget  boldly  whence  he  hath 
them,  so  long  as  he  knoweth  how  to  appro- 
priate them.  Truth  and  reason  are  common 
to  all  men,  and  belong  no  more  to  him  who 
spake  them  first  than  to  him  who  spake  them 
afterwards.  Such  and  such  a  saying  is  no  more 

1  Essais,  i.  25:  'Du  P&lantisme.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         63 

Plato's  than  it  is  mine,  sith  that  he  and  I  see 
and  understand  in  the  same  fashion.  The 
bees  pillage  the  flowers,  here,  there,  every- 
where, but  then  they  make  honey  from  their 
takings,  and  the  honey  is  all  theirs  :  it  is  no 
longer  thyme  or  marjoram.  And  thus  it 
standeth  with  him  who  borroweth  from  other 
authors.  He  will  fuse  them  and  transform 
them,  to  make  thereof  a  venture  all  his 
own.' l 

Thus  Montaigne  spent  his  hours — sipping, 
settling,  flitting  with  deliberation  through  his 
library.  Here,  too,  he  jotted  down  and  re- 
wrote his  Essays — the  harvest  from  his  books 
and  from  his  life.  He  took  his  labours  easily, 
and  we  need  by  no  means  picture  him  as 
always  reading  or  writing  in  his  hermitage. 
He  loved  idling  there  by  himself,  or  with 
no  other  companion  than  his  cat.  This  cat 
he  delighted  in  watching,  much  as  Anatole 
France  likes  to  watch  his  dog. 

'  When,'  he  says,  c  I  play  with  my  cat,  who 
knoweth  whether  she  is  using  me  as  a  way  of 
passing  her  time  even  more  than  I  use  her 
for  the  same  purpose  ?  We  entertain  one 
another  reciprocally  with  our  cunning  tricks. 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  '  DC  I'lnstitution  des  Enfants.' 


64         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

If  I  have  my  hour  for  advancing  or  refusing, 
so  hath  she.' l 

Montaigne  was  not  merely  amused  by 
animals,  he  had  a  real  love  for  them.  c  Con- 
sidering,' he  said,  *  that  the  same  Master  hath 
given  us  lodging  in  this  palace  for  his  service, 
and  that  they  belong,  like  us,  to  his  family, 
Nature  hath  good  reason  to  enjoin  upon  us 
some  kind  of  esteem  and  affection  towards 
them.  .  .  .  Indeed,  when  all  is  said,  there 
existeth  a  common  human  duty,  a  certain 
respect  the  which  attacheth  us  not  only  to  the 
beasts  who  have  life  and  sentiment,  but  even 
to  the  trees  and  plants.  We  owe  justice 
to  men,  and  grace  and  benignity  to  the  other 
creatures,  who  are  not  capable  of  justice. 
There  is  a  sort  of  intercourse  between  them 
and  us,  and  a  sort  of  mutual  obligation.' 2 

We  hear  nothing  of  Montaigne's  dog,  if  he 
had  one,  but  his  horse  played  a  part  in  his 
life  ;  riding  was  his  favourite  form  of  exercise, 
even  when  he  was  ill  and  in  pain.  But  for 
sport  he  did  not  care  at  all,  nor  for  any  species 
of  athletics.  He  did  not,  he  said,  take  after 
his  agile  father.  c  There  was  no  man  of  bis 
age  to  be  found,'  he  tells  us,  c  who  could  rival 

1  Essais,  ii.  12:  '  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  1 1  :  *  De  la  CruauteV 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         65 

him  in  bodily  exercise,  just  as  I  hardly  ever 
find  any  one  who  cannot  outdo  me,  save  in 
running,  in  the  which  I  used  to  have  a 
mediocre  success.  ...  In  dancing  and  tennis, 
in  wrestling,  I  have  never  been  able  to  acquire 
more  than  a  very  slight  and  ordinary  effici- 
ency ;  in  swimming,  fencing,  vaulting,  and 
jumping,  none  at  all.' l 

Accomplishments  were  not  in  Montaigne's 
line:  no  one  could  teach  him  to  play  on  any 
instrument,  and  his  voice  was  what  he  called 
'inept.'  '  My  hands,'  he  says,  'are  so  clumsy 
that  I  cannot  even  write  properly  myself,  so 
that  when  I  have  finished  a  scrawl,  I  had 
rather  rewrite  it  than  give  myself  the  trouble 
of  deciphering  it  ;  and  my  reading  is  very 
little  better.  .  .  .  Although  otherwise  a  good 
clerk,  I  do  not  know  how  to  close  up  a  letter 
rightly.' 2  .  .  .  '  I  would  rather  compose  two 
letters  than  fold  one,  and  always  leave  this 
task  to  some  one  else.' 3  .  .  .  Nor  have  I  ever 
been  able  to  cut  a  pen,  nor  carve  decently  at 
table,  nor  harness  a  horse,  nor  carry  a  bird  on 
my  wrist  and  let  it  loose,  nor  speak  to  dogs,  or 
birds,  or  horses.  My  bodily  conditions  agree, 
in  brief,  with  those  of  my  soul  ;  they  show 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  *  De  la  Presomption.'  2  Ibid.  f 

3  Essais,  i.  40  :  '  Consideration  sur  Cic&ron.' 
E 


66         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

nothing  gay  and  alert,  only  a  full  and  steady 
vigour.  I  stand  hardship  well  ;  but  I  stand 
it  only  so  far  as  my  own  desires  lead  me  there- 
unto ;  otherwise,  unless  my  palate  is  tickled  by 
some  pleasure  involved  therein,  if  I  have  no 
other  guide  than  just  my  will,  I  am  no  good 
at  it  at  all.  .  .  .  And  as  up  to  this  hour  I  have 
known  no  commander,  no  mastering  force,  I 
have  marched  pretty  straight  forward  at  what 
pace  I  liked.  This  hath  slackened  my  fibre 
and  made  me  useless  for  the  service  of  others, 
and  no  good  excepting  to  myself.  ...  It  hath 
made  me  delicate  of  temperament  and  in- 
capable of  worry — to  such  a  point  that  I  like 
people  to  hide  from  me  my  losses  and  any 
kind  of  disturbance  that  may  affect  me.  I 
allow  in  my  current  expenses  for  what  my 
nonchalance  costeth  me  in  food  and  mainten- 
ance ;  and  I  like  not  to  know  the  sum  I  have 
in  hand,  that  I  may  feel  my  losses  the  less 
exactly.  As  for  those  who  live  with  me,  I 
pray  of  them,  when  affection  for  me  faileth 
them,  together  with  all  its  kind  results,  to 
take  me  in  with  pleasant  seemings.  For  want, 
indeed,  of  sufficient  strength  to  suffer  the 
importunity  of  the  adverse  accidents  to  the 
which  we  are  subject,  and  because  I  do  not 
hold  myself  called  to  regulate  and  order  our 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         67 

affairs,  I  abandon  myself  to  fortune,  and 
nourish  within  myself — as  far  as  I  can — this 
opinion  :  that  it  is  best  to  take  all  things  at 
their  worst,  and,  as  for  that  worst,  to  resolve 
to  bear  it  gently  and  patiently.' 1 

It  was  characteristic  of  Montaigne  that  he 
not  only  knew,  but  enjoyed  his  limitations. 
His  own  frankness  amused  him.  '  I  have 
not,'  he  says,  'like  Socrates,  corrected  my 
natural  temperament  by  the  force  of  reason, 
and  I  have  not  disturbed  my  instincts  by  any 
arts.  As  I  came,  so  I  let  myself  go  on.'2 
If  he  exaggerated,  it  was  not  on  the  side  of 
his  virtues.  Some  foibles  that  he  describes 
are  hard  to  believe  in.  Was  his  talk,  for 
instance,  so  dull  as  he  makes  out  ?  '  In  con- 
versation,' he  tells  us,  '  I  feel  myself  weighing 
heavy  on  my  listeners.' 3  .  .  .  '  If  I  grow  so 
bold  as  to  break  my  thread  ever  so  little,  I 
never  fail  to  lose  it  altogether,  and  that  makes 
my  speech  dry  and  crabbed  and  constrained 
.  .  .  my  mind  is  slow  and  woolly,  the  least 
want  of  clearness  sendeth  me  off  my  point — 
any  subtlety,  howso  trivial,  will  hinder  me. 
My  apprehension  is  slow  and  confused,  but 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  'De  la  Pr&omption.' 

2  Essais,  i\i.  12  :'  De  la  Physionomie/ 

3  Essais,  ii.  17  :  *  De  la  Preemption.' 


68         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

what  it  hath  once  grasped,  it  graspeth  well, 
and  embraceth  it  very  closely  and  deeply  and 
widely,  so  long  as  it  keepeth  hold  thereof/  l 

He  was  evidently  the  constant  victim  of  his 
own  absence  of  mind,  and  that  was  partly  the 
result  of  that  amazingly  bad  memory  to  which 
he  devotes  such  vivid  pages.  When  some- 
thing that  he  wanted  in  his  library  came 
into  his  head,  he  had  to  '  confide  his  need  to 
some  one  else ' — even  when  it  was  something 
he  wanted  to  write  about — for  fear  of  forget- 
ting it  while  he  crossed  the  courtyard  between 
his  tower  and  the  house.  He  took  three 
hours  to  learn  two  verses  of  poetry.  When 
he  called  his  servants,  he  called  them  by  the 
names  of  their  functions  or  their  countryside, 
because  he  could  not  remember  other  names. 
It  came  easier  to  him,  he  said,  to  know  that  a 
name  had  three  syllables,  or  an  ugly  sound,  or 
ended  with  such  and  such  a  letter,  'than  to 
recall  it';  cand  if,'  he  adds,  'I  should  have  a 
long  life,  I  believe  that  I  should  forget  my 
own  name.  So  greatly  do  I  excel  in  forget- 
fulness,  that  even  my  writings  .  .  .  are  for- 
gotten with  the  rest.  The  public  dealeth  me 
blows  about  them,  and  I  do  not  feel  them.' 2 

Montaigne  was  made  up  of  little  tastes  and 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  *  De  la  Presomption.'  2  Ibid. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         69 

habits,  not  one  of  which  has  he  left  un- 
chronicled,  even  to  the  way  in  which  he 
rubbed  his  ears,  c  scratching  being  one  of 
Nature's  sweetest  gratifications.'  .  .  .  '  I  move 
with  difficulty,'  he  wrote,  c  and  am  dilatory 
in  all  things  :  in  getting  up,  in  going  to  bed, 
at  my  meals.  Seven  o'clock  is  early  for  me, 
and  where  I  am  master  I  never  dine  before 
eleven,  or  sup  till  after  six.1  .  .  . 

These  were  his  only  two  meals  ;  he  re- 
quired nine  hours  for  sleep,  but  he  never 
napped  in  the  day  ;  he  was  particular  about 
going  booted  and  braced.  c  I  like,'  he  says, 
'  to  be  shaved  after  dinner,  and  find  it  as  diffi- 
cult to  leave  off  my  gloves  as  my  chemise  ; 
nor  can  I  do  without  washing  when  I  rise, 
and  when  I  get  up  from  table  ;  or  without 
the  ceiling  and  curtains  of  my  bed — things 
very  necessary  to  me.  ...  I  wear  no  more 
covering  on  my  leg  or  thigh  in  winter  than 
in  summer.  ...  I  would  willingly  dine 
without  a  tablecloth,  but  I  should  not  at  all 
like  to  dine  without  a  napkin  such  as  they 
use  in  Germany.  I  soil  it  more  than 
either  Germans  or  Italians,  and  seek  but  little 
help  from  spoon  or  fork  ;  and  I  regret  that 
we  do  not  still  follow  a  fashion  that  I  once 

1  Essais,  ii.  17:  'De  la  Presomption.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

saw  started,  in  imitation  of  royalty — that  we 
should  have  our  napkins  changed  like  our 
plates,  after  every  course.1  ...  A  crowd  of 
dishes  and  courses  displeaseth  me,  as  crowds 
always  do.  I  am  easily  satisfied  with  a  few. 
I  usually  eat  salted  meats,  and  I  prefer  bread 
without  salt.  My  household  baker,  contrary 
to  custom  hereabouts,  makes  no  other  sort  for 
me.2  ...  I  am  not  excessively  fond  of  salads 
or  of  fruits,  excepting  melons.  My  father 
hated  every  kind  of  sauce  ;  I  love  them  all. 
.  .  .  I  am  greedy  about  fish.  My  jours  matgres 
turn  into  my  jours  gras,  and  fast-days  are  my 
feast-days.  ...  As  for  fasting,  I  used  to 
practise  it  to  keep  my  vigour  in  good  con- 
dition for  some  activity  of  mind  or  body. 
For  repletion,  in  my  case,  hath  a  cruelly 
sluggish  effect  upon  activity.  Above  all,  I 
detest  a  foolish  marriage  between  this  healthy 
happy  little  goddess  (of  appetite)  with  that 
roasting  little  god  of  indigestion,  all  puffed 
out  with  fumes  of  his  own  wine.  .  .  .' 3  '  It 
is  most  unseemly,  besides  being  injurious  to 
health,  even  to  pleasure,  to  gobble  as  I  do.  I 
often  bite  my  tongue,  sometimes  my  fingers, 
from  sheer  haste.  .  .  .  There  were  men  at 

1  Essais,  iii.  13:  « De  I'Exp&ience.' 
3  Ibid.  8  Ibid. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN        71 

Rome  who  taught  graceful  mastication,  like 
graceful  walking.  In  my  hurry,  I  lose  leisure 
for  talk — that  pleasant  seasoning  of  the  dinner- 
table.1 

As  for  intercourse  at  meal-times  : 

c  I  hate  the  idea  of  being  compelled  to 
have  my  mind  in  the  clouds,  while  I  have 
my  body  at  table  .  .  .  when  I  dance,  I 
dance  ;  when  I  sleep,  I  sleep  :  in  like  fashion, 
when  I  take  a  stroll  alone  in  a  beautiful 
orchard,  if  for  part  of  the  time  my  thoughts 
are  taken  up  with  other  topics,  for  another 
part  I  bring  them  back  to  my  walk,  to  the 
orchard,  to  the  sweetness  of  this  solitude,  and 
to  myself/  2 

But  he  did  not  set  out  for  this  walk  upon 
getting  up  from  table.  His  gastronomies 
foreshadow  those  of  men  to  come — of  future 
Herbert  Spencers — and  he  had  his  code  for 
conduct  after  meals. 

c  I  like  to  rest  a  long  time  after  them, 
and  to  hear  other  folk  talk,  provided  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  For  I  grow  fatigued, 
and  harm  myself  by  talking  with  a  full  stomach 
— as  much  as  I  gain  by  the  exercise  of  shout- 
ing and  arguing  before  a  meal,  the  which 
habit  I  find  most  wholesome  and  pleasant.  .  .  . 

1  Essais,  iii.  13:  «  De  PExperience.'  2  Ibid. 


72         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

I  like  a  hard  bed,  and  I  never  use  a  warming- 
pan  ;  but  since  I  have  grown  old,  they  give 
me  blankets  to  warm  my  feet  and  stomach. 
.  .  .  And  I  like  to  take  my  rest,  whether 
lying  down  or  sitting,  with  my  legs  as  high 
as  the  seat,  or  higher.' 1 

His  orchard  strolls  were  never  connected 
with  business.  He  left  the  management  of 
the  estate  to  his  wife,  on  the  plea  that  he 
knew  nothing  of  affairs. 

c  I  was  born  and  reared,'  he  tells  us, c  among 
the  fields.  ...  I  have  not  a  notion  how  to 
reckon,  either  in  my  head  or  with  my  pen. 
There  is  hardly  a  coin  that  I  can  recognise  ;  I 
do  not  know  one  grain  from  another,  whether 
still  growing  or  in  the  granary,  unless  the 
difference  is  very  marked  ;  and  I  barely  know 
the  difference  between  the  cabbage  and 
lettuce  of  my  garden.  I  do  not  even  under- 
stand the  names  of  the  most  elementary  house- 
hold utensils,  or  the  crudest  principle  of  agri- 
culture, such  as  every  child  hath  by  heart.2 
'  And  what  would  I  not  do  rather  than 
read  a  contract — rather  than  go  on  shaking 
dusty  papers,  making  myself  the  serf  of  my 
affairs,  or,  worse  still,  of  the  affairs  of  others, 

1  Essais,  in.  13  :   '  De  1'Experience.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  17  :  'De  la  Pr&omption/ 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         73 

as  so  many  men  do,  if  they  are  paid  for  it  ? 
My  one  aim  is  to  turn  myself  into  a  cow  and 
a  don't-care.' l  .  .  . 

'  My  father  loved  to  build  Montaigne, 
where  he  was  born,  and  in  all  the  arrangement 
of  my  household  I  like  making  use  of  his 
example  and  his  rules,  and  I  shall  bind  my 
successors,  as  far  as  I  can,  unto  the  same.  .  .  . 
If  I  have  attempted  to  finish  some  old  bit  of  a 
wall  or  repair  some  piece  of  the  building,  it 
hath  been  out  of  respect  to  him  rather  than  for 
my  own  contentment.  .  .  .  For  as  far  as  my 
private  inclinations  go,  neither  this  pleasure  in 
building — the  which  is  said  to  be  so  attractive 
— nor  hunting,  nor  gardens,  nor  any  other  joys 
of  a  secluded  life,  have  much  power  to  amuse 
me.  I  would  rather  be  a  good  groom  than  a 
good  logician.' 

c  One  of  my  wishes  at  this  moment  is  to 
find  a  son-in-law  who  would  know  how  to 
soothe  and  cosset  my  old  age,  and  into  whose 
hands  I  could  abdicate  .  .  .  the  government 
and  use  of  my  property.' 2 

This  Montaigne  painted  by  Montaigne, 
this  man,  slow  and  sluggish,  must  none 
the  less  have  had  a  potent  charm  which 
drew  men  to  him — the  unconscious  charm 

1  Essais,  iii.  9  :  «  De  la  Vanite.'  2  Ibid. 


74         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

of  genius.  It  showed  in  his  looks,  and  what 
he  deemed  the  c  frankness '  of  his  face  twice 
acted  as  a  talisman  and  saved  his  life.  The 
first  time  was  during  the  wars  of  religion,  when 
every  man's  hand  was]  against  every  man,  and 
a  treacherous  friend  of  Montaigne's  asked 
him  for  shelter  for  himself  and  his  followers, 
meaning  to  make  the  hospitality  for  which 
he  begged  the  pretext  for  taking  the  chateau. 
Montaigne's  boast  was  that  his  house  was  as 
open  as  his  face,  and  even  in  this  time  of  civil 
war  he  kept  it  undefended.  He  got  scent  of 
the  plot,  yet  he  did  nothing,  and  when  the 
traitor  arrived  he  opened  his  doors.  But 
there  was  something  in  the  host's  candid 
countenance  that  converted  the  guest,  and 
when  his  soldiers  marched  in  after  him  they 
were  amazed  at  his  order  to  follow  him  at 
once  and  depart.  The  second  time,  a  few 
years  later,  Montaigne,  travelling  not  far  from 
Paris,  fell  into  the  hands  of  robbers.  They 
took  his  purse  and  papers,  they  were  about 
to  take  his  life,  when  this  same  something 
in  his  face  disarmed  them.  They  restored  his 
stolen  goods,  they  spoke  to  him  courteously 
and  let  him  go. 

One  would  like  to  know  more  about  the 
circle  upon   whom   Montaigne's    power  was 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         75 

exercised.  It  was  a  restricted  one.  After 
losing  the  one  perfect  friend,  he  chose  to  have 
few  others. 

c  We  live,5  he  says,  c  in  an  age  which  only 
bringeth  forth  mediocrities,  so  much  so  that 
I  find  nothing  worthy  of  great  admiration. 
And  thus  it  is  that  I  hardly  know  any  men 
intimately  enough  to  be  able  to  judge  of  them. 
Those  among  whom  my  circumstances  gene- 
rally throw  me  are,  for  the  most  part,  persons 
who  care  little  for  the  cultivation  of  the  in- 
tellect— who  have  been  shown  no  ideal  of 
happiness  but  honour,  no  perfection  except- 
ing that  of  valiance/1 

And  of  these  few,  like  other  lazy,  self-con- 
tented persons,  he  preferred  those  below  to 
those  above  him. 

c  I  willingly  give  myself  to  small  folk, 
whether  it  be  because  that  way  there  lieth 
more  glory,  or  else  through  natural  compas- 
sion, the  which  hath  infinite  power  over 
me/2 

There  were  two  or  three  of  the  great  folk 
whom  he  also  affected,  men  like  the  noble  Min- 
ister, Michel  de  1'Hopital,  or  that  most  mag- 
netic Prince,  Henri  de  Navarre.  And  there 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  '  De  la  Pr&omption.' 

2  Essais,  i\\.  13  :'  DC  1'Experience.' 


76         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

were  old  friends — Councillor  Lansac,  to  whom 
he  inscribed  La  Boetie's  translation  of  Xeno- 
phon  ;  or  Henri  de  Mesme,  to  whom  he  dedi- 
cated his  friend's  version  of  Plutarch's  Rules 
of  Marriage,  in  the  hope  that  Madame  de 
Mesme  might  see  how  her  goodness  had  made 
laws  for  itself  which  the  greatest  philosophers 
could  not  surpass  ;  and  c  Mademoiselle '  Le 
Paulmier  (born  de  Chaumont),  a  note  to  whom 
remains  as  a  proof  that  he  could  show  all  the 
drawing-room  graces  when  he  wished  to  do  so. 
c  Mademoiselle,'  it  runs,  '  my  friends  know 
that  from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw  you  I 
destined  one  of  my  books  for  you,  for  I  felt 
you  had  done  them  great  honour.  But  the 
courtesy  of  Monsieur  Paulmier  made  it  impos- 
sible for  me  to  give  it  to  you,  for  that  he  hath 
since  then  laid  me  under  obligations  much 
greater  than  the  worth  of  my  book.  You 
will  please  accept  it  as  being  yours  before  I 
owed  it  as  a  debt  ;  and  you  will  do  me  this 
grace — to  love  it  either  for  the  love  of  him, 
or  for  the  love  of  me.  And  I  meanwhile  shall 
keep  entire  the  debt  I  owe  to  Monsieur 
Paulmier,  so  as  to  avenge  it — that  is,  if  I  can — 
by  doing  him  some  kind  of  service.' * 

Mademoiselle  Le  Paulmier  was  not  alone. 

1  Lettres  de  Montaigne:  A  Mademoiselle  Paulmier. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         77 

4  Among  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
ladies  I  have  known,'  was  one  of  Montaigne's 
phrases.  And  he  is  free  with  his  mention  of 
'bouillons  made  of  Eryngium  and  Turkish 
grass,'  which  he  had  '  swallowed  two  or  three 
times  to  please  the  ladies  who  offered  him 
half  of  their  portion,  with  a  manner  more  sweet 
than  my  complaint  was  sour.'  The  bouillons^ 
he  adds,  were  as  c  easy  to  take  as  they  were  use- 
less in  effect,' !  but  the  ladies  did  not  know 
that  he  thought  so.  Who  were  they  all  ? 
Was  one  the  widow  against  whom  he  warns 
beholders  ?  c  Take  no  notice,'  he  says,  c  of 
those  moist  eyes,  that  piteous  voice  ;  look 
rather  at  her  bearing,  her  complexion,  the 
roundness  of  her  cheeks  below  her  long  veils  ; 
through  these  it  is  that  she  talks  her  native 
French.' 2  Had  she  tried  her  native  French 
upon  Montaigne  ? 

Women  were  probably  charmed  and  sub- 
jugated by  his  sunny  selfishness — a  steady  reli- 
able selfishness,  better  than  the  common  sort, 
since  it  recognised  that  it  should  pay  for  its 
privileges  by  good  temper. 

'And  for  the  friendship  each  man  oweth 
unto  himself,'  he  says,  c  whoso  knoweth  and 

1  Essats,  iii.  13  :  '  De  1'Experience.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  35  :   '  De  trois  bonnes  femmes.' 


78         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

practiseth  the  duties  thereof,  he  belongeth  to 
the  Privy  Closet  of  the  Muses.' l 

c  As  if  our  own  death  did  not  give  us  enough 
to  fear,  we  load  ourselves  with  that  of  our 
wives,  our  children,  our  servants.  As  if  our 
own  business  did  not  bother  us  sufficiently, 
we  have  to  set  about  tormenting  ourselves  and 
splitting  our  heads  over  the  concerns  of  our 
friends  and  neighbours.  .  .  .* 

'  And  in  that  natural  decline  which  maketh 
man  importunate  and  burdensome  to  others, 
let  him  beware  of  being  importunate  and 
burdensome  to  himself.  .  .  .  Let  him  flatter 
and  caress  himself — above  all  things,  let  him 
be  his  own  governor.' 2 

c  The  singular  affection  that  I  bear  myself, 
as  one  who  bringeth  all  back  to  himself  and 
hardly  spendeth  anything  outside,'  so  he  de- 
fines his  attitude.  .  .  .  '  All  that  other  men  dis- 
tribute to  an  infinite  multitude  of  friends  and 
acquaintance,  for  their  glory  or  their  great- 
ness, /  carry  home  for  myself  and  the  repose 
of  my  spirit.' 3 

'  I  flee  from  melancholy  humours  and  care- 
worn men,  as  I  would  flee  from  men  stricken 

1  Essais,  iii.  10  :  *  De  manager  sa  volonteV 

2  Essais,  i.  39  :  '  De  la  Solitude.' 

8  Essaisy  ii.  17  :  «  De  la  Presomption.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         79 

by  the  plague  ;  and,  unless  I  am  forced 
thereto  by  duty,  I  never  mix  myself  up  in 
subjects  which  I  cannot  treat  without  getting 
interested,  or  feeling  emotion.' l 

This  sounds  bad  enough  ;  but  Montaigne 
knew  himself  when  he  wrote,  *  I  see  much 
more  clearly  in  serene  weather.' 2  His  happi- 
ness depended  upon  a  calm,  and  his  behaviour 
depended  upon  his  happiness.  *  To  me,'  he 
wrote,  c  happiness  is  a  singularly  potent  spur 
to  moderation  and  to  modesty.'3  His  happi- 
nesses were  many,  his  sense  of  enjoyment  as 
acute  as  that  of  youth.  '  Others  feel  the 
pleasure  of  content  and  prosperity.  So  do 
I,  but  not  as  a  something  fleeting  that 
slippeth  past  us.  It  must  be  chewed  and 
studied,  it  is  stuff  for  rumination.  .  .  .  And 
so  that  even  my  sleep  should  not  thus  stupidly 
escape  me,  I  used  to  arrange  to  be  disturbed, 
that  I  might  at  least  half  apprehend  the  joys 
thereof.'4 

The  crown  of  Montaigne's  happiness — ac- 
cording to  himself — was  characteristic  :  it  was 
the  remembrance  of  other  men's  misfortunes. 

c  What  a  fine  thing  it  is  for  the  mind  to 

1  Essais,  iii.  10  :  'De  manager  sa  volonteV 

2  Essais,  i\\.  i :  '  Du  Repentir.' 
8  Essais,  iii.  9  :  «  De  la  VaniteV 

4  Essais,  iii.  1 3  :  De  1'Experiencc.' 


8o         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

find  itself  poised  at  such  a  point  that  no  fear 
or  doubt  disturbeth  the  air — no  difficulty  past, 
present,  or  future,  over  which  the  imagination 
can  flit,  yet  take  no  harm.  This  thought 
borroweth  great  lustre  from  comparison  with 
other  people's  circumstances.  And  so  I  am 
always  picturing,  under  a  thousand  forms,  the 
lives  of  those  whom  fortune  or  their  own 
mistakes  have  tossed  and  submerged.' 1 

Montaigne's  fancy  was  of  a  strangely  literal 
kind — of  near  kin  to  curiosity.  Yet  it  be- 
longed to  the  artist  side  of  him — the  side  that 
gave  him  so  much  trouble. 

He  needed  his  own  indulgence,  for  he 
found  it  no  easy  task  to  rule  himself.  Mon- 
taigne was,  indeed,  a  dozen  Montaignes,  a 
man  of  impressions,  of  shifting  moods. 

'  My  feet  are  so  unsteady,  so  unsure,  so 
ready  to  totter  and  to  feel  the  earth  crumble 
beneath  them — my  eyesight  is  so  ill-regulated 
— that  when  I  fast,  I  am  another  man  than 
he  who  hath  eaten  a  repast  ;  if  health  and  the 
radiance  of  a  fine  day  smile  upon  me,  there  I 
stand — a  well-behaved  man.  If  I  have  a  corn 
pressing  upon  my  heel,  there  I  stand — glum, 
disagreeable,  inaccessible.' 2 

1  Essais,  Hi.  13  :  *  De  TExp^rience.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  12  :  *  Apologie  de  Rairaond  Sebond, 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         81 

Moral  effort  he  thought  a  waste  of  nervous 
force. 

c  I  have  never  put  myself  to  great  pains  to 
curb  the  desires  by  the  which  I  have  found 
myself  beset.  My  virtue  is  a  virtue,  or  rather 
an  innocence,  which  is  purely  random  and 
accidental.  ...  By  lucky  chance  I  come  of 
a  race  famous  for  its  honour,  and  of  an  excel- 
lent father.  I  know  not  whether  some  part 
of  his  tastes  have  passed  into  me  ;  or  whether 
home  example,  and  the  good  teaching  I  had 
in  childhood,  have  helped  me  without  my 
being  aware  ;  or  else  whether  I  was  born  thus  ; 
but,  anyhow,  I  hold  most  vices  in  abhor- 
rence. ...  In  more  than  one  matter  I  find 
more  steadiness  and  law  in  my  morals  than 
in  my  opinions  :  my  appetites  are  less  corrupt 
than  my  reason.' * 

c  Among  other  vices,  I  cruelly  hate  cruelty, 
both  by  nature  and  by  my  judgment,  as  the 
extreme  of  all  wickedness  ;  I  carry  my  feeling 
to  such  a  degree  of  softness  that  I  cannot 
see  the  neck  of  a  fowl  wrung  without  dis- 
pleasure, and  cannot  bear  to  hear  the  wail 
of  a  hare  caught  by  my  hounds,  although 
riding  to  the  chase  is  one  of  my  excessive 
pleasures.' 2 

1  Essais,  ii.  1 1  :  '  De  la  Cruaute.'  2  Ibid. 

F 


82         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

But  Montaigne  continued  to  hunt.  To 
give  up  an  enjoyment  for  the  sake  of  a  prin- 
ciple would  have  seemed  to  him  mere  arrog- 
ance. His  pride  was  of  another  kind. 

c  I  remember  that  from  my  tenderest  years, 
my  people  said  that  I  showed  I  know  not 
what  in  my  port  and  gestures  the  which  bore 
witness  to  a  vain  and  foolish  pride.  ...  I 
am  lavish  enough  of  cappings  and  bowings, 
notably  in  the  summer-time,  and  I  never  re- 
ceive one  without  returning  it,  whatever  the 
quality  of  the  saluter,  unless  he  be  a  person  in 
my  pay.' 1 

It  was  what  made  Montaigne  so  piquant, 
this  medley  of  familiar  ease  and  ceremonious- 
ness — his  power  to  be  as  inconsistent  as  a 
woman,  while  he  remained  as  virile  as  a  man. 
But  his  pride  was  only  skin-deep.  He  had 
not  the  slightest  love  of  rule.  c  I  would  rather 
be  third  in  Perigueux  than  first  in  Paris  ;  or, 
at  least,  as  I  do  not  want  to  lie,  third  in  Paris 
than  first  in  office.  I  am  impelled  to  keep  to 
the  middle  story,  as  by  my  fate,  so  likewise 
by  my  taste.'  2 

If  Montaigne  was  not  precisely  humble,  he 
was  modest.  Humility  may  be  said  to  belong 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  *  De  la  Presomption.' 

z  Essais,  iii.  7  :  '  De  I'Incommoditd  dc  la  Grandeur.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         83 

to  the  region  of  morals,  but  modesty  is  rather 
concerned  with  taste — with  the  breeding  of 
the  mind — with  good  manners.  Montaigne, 
who  never  disliked  self-satisfaction,  was  always 
irritated  by  a  want  of  modesty.  And  he 
carried  this  favourite  virtue  to  its  logical  con- 
clusion, to  a  kind  of  policy  of  masterly  neglect. 

'  Abstinence  from  action  is  often  as  generous 
as  action,  but  it  is  less  evident.  All  the  little 
good  I  am  worth  is  of  this  kind.  And  I  am 
made  in  such  a  fashion  that  I  would  as  lief  be 
happy  as  good,  and  would  as  soon  owe  my 
success  to  the  grace  of  God  only,  as  to  any 
interference  of  my  own.'1  This  negative 
attitude  had  its  drawbacks,  and  he  suffered 
for  his  good  taste — or  was  it  for  his  want  of 
conviction  ? 

4 1  encountered/  he  says,  '  all  the  inconveni- 
ences that  moderation  bringeth  in  its  train. 
...  I  was  pommelled  on  every  hand.  The 
Ghibelines  thought  me  a  Guelph,  and  the 
Guelphs  thought  me  a  Ghibelin.'2 

However,  as  he  despised  both  Guelphs  and 
Ghibelines  there  was  not  much  harm  done. 
And  he  had  rich  compensations.  Modesty  and 
curiosity  are  amusing  qualities  ;  they  make  a 

1  Essaist  iii.  10 :  'De  menager  sa  volonteV 

2  Essais,  iii.  12:'  De  la  Physionomie.' 


84         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

man  into  a  good  spectator.  Pythagoras,  he 
tells  us,  said  that  '  Life  was  like  a  great  crowd 
gathered  together  to  see  the  Olympic  Games. 
Some  are  exercising  their  bodies  to  win  glory 
in  the  games  ;  others  are  hawking  their  wares 
for  profit.  And  there  are  some,  by  no  means 
the  worst,  who  seek  no  other  gain  than  freedom 
to  look  how  and  why  everything  happeneth, 
and  to  be  spectators  of  the  life  of  other  men, 
that  thereby  they  may  judge  and  govern  their 
own.' l 

Spectatorship  must  be  made  into  a  fine  art ; 
it  must  never  be  tinged  with  professionalism. 
Professionalism  was  Montaigne's  bugbear  ;  a 
specialist  to  him  was  anathema  (to  him,  who 
said  that  he  c  could  not  examine  a  child  of  the 
middle  classes  in  its  first  lesson'),2  and  a 
c  literary  man '  was  worse  than  all. 

c  Mon  Dieu  !  '  he  cries, c  how  I  should  hate  to 
be  commended  for  being  a  clever  writer,  and 
be  a  nobody  and  a  fool  in  other  characters.  I 
would  rather  be  a  fool  in  all  things  than  have  so 
ill  chosen,  and  so  ill-used  my  market  value.' 3 

'There  is  as  much  vanity  and  weakness  of 
understanding  in  those  who  profess  to  be 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  *  DC  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 

2  Ibid. 

3  Essais,  ii.  37  :  'De  la  Resscmblance  des  enfants  aux  peres.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         85 

superior-minded,  who  are  concerned  with 
literary  work  and  such  offices  as  depend  upon 
letters,  as  in  any  sort  of  people — either 
because  more  is  expected  of  them  and  because 
ordinary  faults  in  them  are  inexcusable,  or 
because  a  reputation  for  knowledge  lendeth 
them  greater  boldness  in  producing  themselves 
and  in  giving  themselves  away  excessively, 
whereby  they  betray  their  interests  and  fall  to 
pieces.' l 

No  shibboleths  for  Montaigne.  Dilettantisme 
oblige  was  his  motto.  And  dilettantism  must 
not  be  an  insipid  business.  '  No  wind  maketh 
for  him  who  hath  no  destined  port,' 2  he  once 
wrote,  and  he  steered  straight  for  knowledge 
— rich,  haphazard  knowledge  of  human  life. 

He  may  say  what  he  will  about  his  slow- 
ness, intercourse  with  him  must  have  been 
enchanting.  The  talk  which  himself  he  so 
depreciated  was  probably  not  brilliant,  but  to 
the  point ;  desultory,  perhaps,  but  always  pithy. 
And  he  liked  plainness  of  speech  in  return. 
4  Whoso  answereth  what  I  say  answereth  well 
enough,  and  more  than  well,  for  me,'3  he  says. 
Some  one  to  answer  him,  however,  he  needed, 
and  for  other  purposes  than  those  of  digestion. 

1  Essaisy  ii.  17  :  4  De  la  Presomption.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  I  :   '  De  PInconstance  de  nos  actions.' 
8  Efsais,  iii.  8  :  *  L'Art  de  conferer.' 


86         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

Whatever  he  may  have  done  in  his  tower,  he 
could  not  get  on  without  conversation.  c  The 
occasion,  the  company,  the  agitation  of  my  own 
voice,  draw  forth  from  my  mind  (he  says)  more 
than  I  discover  when  I  sound  it  and  use  it  by 
myself.'  But  he  laid  down  strict  laws  for  his 
interlocutor.  '  By  how  much,'  he  writes,  c  is 
false  speech  less  companionable  than  silence ! ' l 
*  One  must  not  always  say  everything,  for  that 
would  be  folly  ;  but  what  one  does  say  must  be 
what  one  thinks ;  otherwise  it  turns  into  evil.'2 

'  Perfect  agreement  in  conversation  is  of  all 
things  the  most  tiresome.' 

Any  laying  down  of  the  law  he  disliked 
still  more.  '  I  never  make  it  my  business,'  he 
writes, c  to  tell  the  world  what  it  ought  to  do  ; 
there  are  enough  meddlers  already.  .  .  .  With 
company  I  associate  talk — and  able  talk,  with- 
out squeamishness.'  '  As  for  the  subject,  I 
don't  care  a  pin  ;  to  me  all  opinions  are  one, 
and  victory  pretty  indifferent.  I  could  fight 
peaceably  for  a  whole  day,  if  the  debate  were 
conducted  with  due  order  ;  it  is  not  so  much 
force  or  subtlety  that  I  demand — it  is  order.' 3 
c  Even  among  pertinent  talkers,  I  see  some 

1  Essais,  i.  9 :  '  Des  Menteurs.' 

2  EssatSj  ii.  17:  '  De  la  Pr&omption.' 

8  ESM'S,  iii.  8  :  *  De  1'Art  de  conf&er.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         87 

who  cannot  give  up  their  course.  While 
they  .  .  .  are  actually  trying  to  end  their 
journey  .  .  .  they  go  on  turning  somersaults 
and  dawdling,  like  men  who  have  lost  their 
strength.  .  .  .  Old  men  are  the  most 
dangerous,  for  they  still  remember  past  things 
and  do  not  forget  that  they  have  told  them. 
.  .  .  And  next  to  this  in  importance,  Heaven 
grant  I  may  never  remember  the  offences 
that  I  have  received  ! ' l 

Montaigne's  aims  in  conversation  were  often 
deeper  than  they  seemed.  It  is  true  that  in 
general  he  talked  for  no  weightier  end  than 
amusement,  but  his  subjects  were  never  con- 
ventional, nor  did  he  promote  conventionality 
in  others. 

'  Conventionality  sweeps  us  along  with  it — 
we  abandon  the  substance  of  things.  .  .  . 
Conventionality  forbids  us  to  express  in  words 
things  natural  and  lawful,  and  we  believe  it  ; 
reason  forbids  us  to  do  things  unlawful  and 
evil,  and  no  one  believes  it.5  2 

'To  express  in  words  things  lawful  and 
natural' — that  phrase  is  no  bad  summary  of 
Montaigne's  idea  of  conversation. 

1  Essais,  i.  9  :  '  Des  Menteurs.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  17  :  *De  la  Presomption. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 


III 

MONTAIGNE  himself  believed  that  his  life  of 
seclusion  was  mainly  due  to  his  disgust  with 
public  affairs. 

This  was  perhaps  not  quite  so  true  as  he 
believed,  but  there  was  no  doubt  about  his 
disillusionment. 

'  The  corruption  of  the  age  is  made  by  the 
individual  contribution  of  each  one  of  us. 
Some  give  treachery,  some  injustice,  irreligion, 
tyranny,  avarice,  or  cruelty,  according  to  their 
power  ;  the  feebler  sort  bring  foolishness, 
vanity,  idleness.  And  of  this  race  am  I.  It 
seemeth  to  me  this  is  the  period  of  vain 
things  ...  a  time  when  evil-doing  is  so 
common  that  useless  -  doing  hath  become 
matter  for  praise.' : 

The  wars  of  religion,  the  senseless  violence 
on  either  side,  the  universal  rottenness,  dis- 
mayed him. 

In  1570,  he  even  gave  up  his  magistracy, 
his  one  real  link  with  Government.  He  felt 

1  Essais,  iii.  9 :  'De  la  Vanit6.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         89 

no  patriotism  —  he  almost  grew  to  dislike 
France.  He  was,  he  says,  a  Parisian,  not  a 
Frenchman,  and  he  left  his  tower  willingly 
for  no  place  but  Paris.  There  he  was  in  1570, 
superintending  the  printing  of  La  Boetie's 
works.  Thither,  too,  he  must  have  travelled 
occasionally,  now  on  business,  now  to  Court,  to 
practise  his  precepts  concerning  intercourse  and 
to  rub  his  mind  against  the  minds  of  others. 

c  I  must  not,'  he  says,  c  forget  that  I  never 
so  far  mutiny  against  France  as  not  to  look 
favourably  upon  Paris.  From  my  child- 
hood upwards,  she  hath  had  my  heart,  and 
it  hath  happened  to  me,  as  it  always  doth 
with  what  is  excellent,  that  the  more  beauti- 
ful towns  I  have  seen,  the  more  power  hath 
this  one  over  my  affections.  I  love  her  for 
herself.  ...  I  love  her  tenderly  —  even  to 
her  moles  and  blemishes.  I  am  a  French- 
man only  by  the  grace  of  this  great  city, 
great  in  inhabitants,  great  in  prosperity,  but, 
above  all,  great  and  incomparable  in  her 
variety  and  divers  conveniencies  .  .  .  one 
of  the  noblest  ornaments  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
As  long  as  she  endureth,  I  shall  not  want  a 
retreat  to  growl  in.  .  .  .' l 

At  home  he  had  worries  which,  doubtless, 

1  Essais,  \ii.  9  :  '  De  la  Vanite.' 


90         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

he  found  it  hard  to  elude,  even  in  his  tower. 
His  father's  death,  in  1566,  left  a  young 
brother  of  eight  in  his  guardianship.  There 
was  another  brother,  Thomas  —  the  same 
Huguenot  to  whom  La  Boetie  gave  his  dying 
counsels — and  he  also  had  to  be  provided  for. 
Montaigne  presented  him  with  the  estate  of 
Beauregard,  apparently  upon  no  easy  terms,  for 
he  shifted  on  to  Thomas's  shoulders  the  lion's 
share  of  responsibility  for  his  three  sisters  and 
their  fortunes. 

Pierre  d'Ayquem's  death  left  a  mark  upon 
his  eldest  son.  We  owe  to  it,  also,  one  of  his 
masterpieces.  For  it  was  due  to  his  father  that 
we  have  the  'Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.'1 
Some  time  before  his  death,  Pierre  begged  his 
son  to  translate  for  him  a  Latin  work  given 
him  by  a  valued  friend :  Natural  Theology^ 
the  Book  of  Creatures,  a  confession  of  belief, 
written  by  Raimond  Sebond,  an  author  of 
uncertain  nationality  —  some  say  a  Spaniard 
— but,  in  any  case,  a  great  Latinist  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  a  known  physician, 
teaching  at  Toulouse.  The  volume  was  not 
lost  to  posterity  ;  it  was  read  both  by  Pascal 
and  by  Leibnitz,  and  in  .its  own  age  it 
attracted  attention.  It  was  a  defence  of  the 

1  Essais,  ii.  12:  •  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         91 

Faith.  But  if  Pierre  d'Ayquem,  as  has  been 
supposed,  set  his  son  to  work  in  the  hope  that 
Sebond's  arguments  would  help  him  towards 
orthodoxy,  he  made  a  blunder.  The  great 
Essay  that  Montaigne  wrote  later  upon  the 
book  remains  as  one  of  the  strongest  bulwarks  of 
sceptical  thought.  Meanwhile,  he  performed 
his  pious  task,  the  beginning  of  which  his 
father  had  seen  and  approved  before  he  died. 
It  took  more  than  two  years  to  finish  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  1568  that  Montaigne  sent  the 
translation  to  press,  carefully  inscribed  with  the 
date,  June  i8th — a  personal  touch,  for  that 
day  was  the  anniversary  of  his  father's  death. 

The  labour  had  been  one  of  filial  love.  It 
was  also,  we  feel,  a  refuge  from  the  world  he 
hated.  That  world  he  hardly  looked  at,  even 
from  the  safe,  high  windows  of  his  tower — and 
they  were  windows  that,  at  best,  could  show 
him  little  of  the  ravaged  country  outside.  He 
ignored  public  events.  Considering  his  con- 
fidential prolixity  about  himself  and  his  house- 
hold, it  is  wonderful  to  consider  the  paucity 
and  shortness  of  his  allusions  to  what  was 
going  on  in  his  day — his  bare  notice  even  of 
the  leading  personages,  the  most  startling 
incidents  that  stirred  his  generation.  He 
speaks  of  the  wars  of  religion  —  he  refers  to 


92         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

the  execution  of  Horn  l  and  Egmont — he  just 
mentions  the  recent  execution  of  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots.2  And  the  only  great  man  among 
his  contemporaries  upon  whom  he  dwells 
with  any  vivid  appreciation  was  Henri  iv., 
his  intellectual  disciple,  his  beau-ideal,  his 
friend,  one  of  the  few,  too,  who  had  known 
how  to  subjugate  him  by  personal  fascination. 

'  The  which  master,'  says  Montaigne, c  once 
described  himself  to  me  thus  :  as  one  who 
seeth  as  clearly  as  any  man  the  dire  force  of 
accident.  But  as  to  those  vicissitudes  for  the 
which  there  is  no  remedy,  he  immediately  re- 
solveth  that  he  will  suffer  them  ;  as  to  the  other 
kind,  when  he  hath  ordered  the  necessary  pro- 
vision wherewith  to  meet  them,  and  hath  done 
all  that,  thanks  to  his  vivid  mind,  he  can  do 
promptly,  then,  in  calm,  he  awaiteth  the 
event.  .  .  .  He  seemeth  to  me  greater  and 
more  capable  in  evil  fortune  than  in  good. 
He  maketh  his  losses  more  glorious  than 
his  victories,  and  his  mourning  more  splendid 
than  his  triumph.' 3 

But  Montaigne  was  moved  by  no  desire  to 

1  Essaist  i.  7  :  *  Que  PIntention  juge  nos  actions.' 

2  Essais,i.  19:  '  Qu'il  nc  faut  juger  de  notre  heur  qu'apres 
la  mort.' 

3  Essais,  \i\.  10  :  '  De  menager  sa  volonteV 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         93 

aid  his  favourite  prince.  He  was  content  to 
admire.  Indeed,  he  disliked  all  action,  more 
especially  when  it  assumed  new  shapes.  He 
distrusted  reforms  as  much  as  he  distrusted 
popular  grievances,  and  the  Reformation  was 
in  his  eyes  the  embodiment  of  human  folly 
and  pretentiousness.  Innovation  he  resented. 
If  he  did  not  say,  whatever  is,  is  right,  he  did 
say  whatever  is  not  yet,  is  more  likely  to  be 
wrong  than  that  which  is.  As  for  political 
convictions,  he  had  none. 

c  I  regard  our  kings/  he  said,  '  with  a  merely 
civil  affection  ruled  by  law,  and  neither  moved 
nor  removed  by  private  interest,  for  the  which 
fact  I  am  well  pleased  with  myself.  No  more 
doth  the  righteous  Popular  Cause  attract  me, 
except  in  moderation,  without  fever.' l 

His  creed  was  purely  negative,  unless  it  be 
too  paradoxical  to  say  that  his  hatred  of  change 
amounted  to  a  positive  principle.  It  was  his 
dominant  idea,  and  one  which  comfortably  re- 
conciled his  instinct  with  his  moral  standards. 

*  We  take,'  he  wrote,  e  a  world  already  made, 
and  bent  to  certain  customs — we  do  not  en- 
gender it.  And  whatever  means  we  use  to 
make  it  lawful  that  we  should  reform  and 
rearrange  it,  we  shall  hardly  drag  it  out  of 

1  Euais,  iii.  i  :  '  DC  1'Utilc  et  de  1'Honncte.' 


94         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

its  accustomed  rut  without  smashing  every- 
thing.'1 

'It  is  very  easy  to  accuse  a  government  of 
imperfections,  for  all  things  mortal  are  full  of 
them.  It  is  very  easy  to  breed  in  a  people 
the  scorn  of  its  ancient  observances.  No 
man  hath  ever  undertaken  such  a  task  without 
achieving  it.  But  as  for  the  establishment  of 
a  better  state  in  the  place  of  that  which  hath 
been  ruined,  why,  truly,  in  this  enterprise 
many  adventurers  have  foundered.' 2 

'  The  laws  have  saved  me  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  ;  they  have  chosen  my  party  and  have 
given  me  a  master.  Every  other  kind  of 
superiority  and  obligation  must  be  restricted 
and  relative,  compared  to  theirs.  Our  wills 
and  desires  make  their  own  laws  ;  our  actions 
have  to  accept  those  commanded  by  State 
ordinance.' 3 

*  For  whoso  meddleth  with  choosing  and 
changing,  usurpeth  authority  to  judge,  and 
must  profess  to  see  the  faults  in  that  which 
he  abolisheth  and  the  good  of  that  which  he 
introduceth.  This  common  consideration  hath 
given  me  a  firmer  seat,  and  held  my  bold 

1  Essais,  iii.  19  :  *  De  la  VaniteV 

2  Essais,  ii.  17  :  'De  la  Presomption.' 

8  Essais,  iii.  I  :  'De  1'Utile  et  de  1'Honnete. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         95 

youth  on  the  curb,  that  I  might  not  load  my 
shoulders  with  so  heavy  a  burden  as  to  make 
myself  answerable  for  such  an  all-important 
branch  of  knowledge,  and  that  I  might  not 
dare  to  do  in  this  what  my  sane  judgment 
would  not  allow  me  to  venture  in  the  easiest 
sciences  the  which  I  have  been  taught — those 
in  which  a  rash  judgment  doth  no  harm.  It 
seemeth  to  me  very  baneful  to  wish  to  submit 
immutable  public  laws  and  public  observance 
to  the  instabilities  of  private  fancy.  Private 
judgment  hath  only  private  jurisdiction.  .  .  . 
But  all  that  other  crowd,  whither  doth  it 
wander  ?  Under  what  flag  doth  it  rush  for 
shelter  f  It  happeneth  with  the  remedies  of 
these  men  as  it  doth  with  other  futile,  ill- 
applied  medicines  —  the  humours  that  they 
desired  to  purge  in  us,  they  do  but  heat.'  .  .  . 
c  For,  in  truth,  in  these  last  necessities,  where 
there  is  nothing  to  be  done,  it  were  perchance 
wiser  to  bow  the  head  and  somewhat  bend 
before  the  blow,  than  to  hurl  aside  the  idea 
of  yielding  any  jot  and  so  give  violence  its 
chance  of  trampling  all  under  foot.' l 

'  Is  it  not  bad  economy  to  advance  so  many 
well-known  and  proven  vices  in  order  to  fight 

1  Essais,  i.  23  :  'De  la  coutume  et  de  nc  changer  ais&nent 
une  loi 


96         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

errors  the  which  are  dubious  and  debatable  ? 
Is  there  a  worse  kind  of  vice  than  that  which 
shocketh  our  own  conscience  and  knowledge  ? ' l 

Yet  'whatsoever  we  already  know  and 
enjoy,  we  feel  that  it  doth  not  satisfy  us,  and 
we  go  gaping  after  things  unknown  and  still 
to  be.  .  .  .  For  that  the  things  present  do 
not  satisfy  us,  is  not  to  my  mind  because  they 
have  not  wherewithal  to  do  so,  but  because 
we  take  hold  of  them  with  a  hand  that  is 
diseased  and  ill-controlled.* 2 

Although  Montaigne  neglected  his  country, 
that  country  took  pains  to  seek  him  out.  In 
1574,  we  find  him  stirring.  The  Due  de 
Montpensier  sent  him  upon  a  mission  from 
the  Royalist  camp  to  the  Parlement  of 
Bordeaux  ;  he  made  a  stay  in  Paris,  and  re- 
ceived the  Order  of  St.  Michael — no  great 
distinction,  perhaps,  since  Guise  had  made 
it  common,  but  still  a  tribute  to  a  pro- 
vincial magistrate  who  was  not  important  in 
the  State  and  was  not  yet  known  as  a  writer. 
Fresh  honours  came  upon  him.  After 
Henri  m.'s  accession  in  1576,  he  was  made 
Gentleman  of  the  Bedchamber,  an  office  not 
needfully  implying  residence  at  Court,  but 

1  Essais,  i.  23  :  'De  la  coutume  et  de  ne  changer  aisement 
une  loi  re^-ue.'  2  Essais,  i.  5  3  :  '  D'un  mot  He  Cesar.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         97 

giving  convenient  access  to  the  King.  And 
in  1577,  t^le  same  Post  was  given  him  by 
Henri  de  Navarre.  This  last  appointment 
came  to  him  as  a  surprise  ;  he  had  no  idea 
that  he  was  to  receive  it  till  the  letter  con- 
ferring it  was  in  his  hands.  He  had  once 
been  instrumental  in  reconciling  Navarre  with 
Guise — he  had  negotiated  between  the  Due 
de  Montpensier  and  the  Bordeaux  Parlement 
— he  had  helped  a  nobleman  to  what  he 
wanted  from  Chancellor  L'Hopital  :  these 
diplomatic  achievements  found  their  reward. 

It  was  between  1571  and  1588  that  he  wrote 
his  Essays  —  those  masterpieces  of  colossal 
ease,  those  desultory  good-natured  fragments 
of  a  complete  and  formidable  philosophy. 
We  know  how  he  came  to  write  them. 
Habit  was  too  strong  for  him  ;  he  had  grown 
unwilling  to  leave  his  library,  and  yet  his 
solitude  had  become  irksome.  '  It  was,'  he 
says,  '  a  melancholy  humour,  and  so  a  humour 
very  adverse  to  my  nature,  one  produced  by 
the  depression  of  that  solitude  in  which,  for 
some  years,  I  had  wrapped  myself,  the  which 
first  put  into  my  head  the  notion  that  I  should 
meddle  with  the  art  of  writing.  And  then, 
for  that  I  found  my  mind  destitute  and  en- 
tirely empty  of  other  matter,  I  presented 


98         MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

myself  to  myself  for  argument  and  for  sub- 
ject.' l 

He  knew  no  other  man  so  well.  He  had 
indeed  observed  himself  as  closely  and  imper- 
sonally as  a  naturalist  observes  a  moth,  and  he 
enjoyed  recording  his  observations.  But  he 
was  quite  without  the  literary  man's  desire  to 
paint  a  picture  of  himself ;  he  had  not  the 
susceptibilities  of  what  we  now  call  the  artist's 
temperament  —  perhaps  his  portrait  is  the 
truer  for  that.  And  the  portrait,  in  its  turn, 
affected  him. 

c  I  have  no  more  made  my  book  than  my 
book  hath  made  me,'  he  says.2  The  Essays 
may,  indeed,  have  helped  him  to  avoid  the 
foibles  he  chronicled.  The  omission  of  one 
emotional  phrase  of  his  :  '  Oh  for  a  friend  ! ' 
which  stands  in  the  first  edition,  but  is  left 
out  of  the  last,  is  by  no  means  without  signifi- 
cance. The  first  complete  edition  was  pub- 
lished in  1588,  but  the  first  two  Books  had 
already  appeared  in  1580,  the  third  being 
added  later.  And  this  third  is  of  especial  inter- 
est ;  it  bears  the  marks  of  his  experience ;  it  is 
often  coloured  by  the  severe  illness  from  which 
he  suffered  in  1580,  and  from  which  he  wrung 

1  Essais,  ii.  8  :  *  De  1'Affection  des  peres  aux  enfants,' 

2  Essais,  ii,  18  ;  '  Du  P&nentir/ 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN         99 

a  new  philosophy — the  philosophy  of  physical 
endurance.  There  was  yet  another,  a  last 
edition,  which  only  appeared  in  1595,  three 
years  after  his  death. 

Thus  the  Essays  took  him  seventeen  years 
of  reading,  registering,  writing,  in  his  tower  : 
of  writing  and  rewriting,  for  that  supreme  ease 
was  not  won  without  effort ;  his  manuscript  is 
scored  with  corrections. 

During  these  seventeen  years,  other  things 
were  happening  to  Montaigne.  Was  it  now, 
was  it  earlier,  that  he  gained  that  experience 
of  military  life  of  which  there  is  evidence 
in  his  pages  ?  He  may  not  have  fought — he 
must  have  known  a  soldier's  existence  ;  but 
when  this  was  remains  in  the  vague.  What- 
ever the  period,  it  could  have  been  but  a  brief 
one,  a  parenthesis  in  his  long  years  of  seclusion, 
maybe  a  passing  phase  of  his  youth.  The 
desire  for  the  excitement  of  battle  found  no 
place  in  Montaigne's  nature.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  felt  strongly  the  desire  for  the  stir  of 
travel.  It  was  characteristic  that  the  spirit  of 
adventure  in  him  should  take  a  merely  intel- 
lectual form — that  of  curiosity — and  his 
appetite  grew  the  keener  for  being  so  long 
unsatisfied.  But  the  moment  came.  His 
serious  illness,  in  1580,  provided  him  with  a 


ioo       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

pretext.  He  would  try  the  Baths  of  Lucca, 
and  his  journey  thither  would  serve  as  a 
motive  for  protracted  wanderings. 

Montaigne  was  a  born  traveller,  in  mind, 
in  body,  in  tastes ;  casual,  observant,  and 
cosmopolitan.  His  hatred  of  any  kind  of 
provincialism  made  him  set  out  in  the  true 
travelling  spirit. 

4 1  am  ashamed,'  he  says,  c  to  see  our 
countrymen  tipsy  with  that  silliest  kind  of 
conceit — a  scare  concerning  forms  that  are 
the  contrary  of  their  own.  They  seem  to 
be  out  of  their  element  directly  they  are  out 
of  their  village.  Wherever  they  go,  they 
stick  to  their  habits  and  abominate  foreign 
ways.  If  they  find  a  Frenchman  in  Hungary, 
they  hold  high  festival  over  the  adventure  ; 
in  an  instant  they  cling  together,  they  tie 
themselves  up  in  a  knot,  they  condemn 
all  the  barbarous  manners  and  customs  they 
come  across — for  why  should  they  not  be 
called  barbarous  since  they  are  not  French  ? 
Most  of  them  like  going  forth  for  the  sake  of 
coming  back  ;  they  travel  tightly  buttoned, 
and  covered  up  with  a  taciturn  incommuni- 
cable prudence,  defending  themselves  against 
the  contagion  of  an  unknown  climate.  ...  I, 
on  the  contrary,  set  out  very  sick  of  our 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       101 

fashions,  not  to  look  for  Gascons  in  Sicily  —  I 
have  left  enough  of  them  at  home  —  I  rather 
seek  for  Greeks  and  for  Persians.'  l 

'Intercourse  with  other  men,  and  seeing 
foreign  countries,  is  wonderfully  good,  and  for 
this  reason  :  not  only  to  bring  home  in  one's 
head  the  exact  number  of  the  steps  at  Santa 
Rotunda,  or  a  computation  of  the  richness  of 
Santa  Lucia's  linen  ;  or,  like  some  others,  to 
know  by  how  much  the  face  of  Nero  found 
(on  a  coin)  in  some  old  ruin  near  by,  is  longer 
or  broader  than  that  on  another  medal  ;  but 
to  bring  home  the  humours  of  nations  and 
their  fashions,  and  to  rub  .  .  *  our  brains 
against  the  brains  of  other  men.  From  its 
tenderest  years  onwards,  I  should  like  a  child 
to  be  taken  abroad.'2 

Anything  better  than  the  'cackle  of  a 
burgh.'  'Thou  seest  nothing,'  he  tells  the 
average  man,  c  but  the  order  and  the  govern- 
ment of  this  little  cave  where  thou  lodgest. 
Thou  proclaimest  but  a  municipal  law  :  thou 
knowest  not  which  is  the  universal.'  3 

So  Montaigne  departed,  determined  to  be 
all  things  to  all  foreigners.  We  have  a  vivid 


tSy  iii.  9  :  '  De  la  Vanite.' 
2  Essats,  i.  26:  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 
8  Essais,  ii.  12:  '  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 


102       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

picture  of  his  start.  Greatly  as  he  had  wished 
it,  and  little  though  he  felt  at  leaving  his 
family,  when  the  moment  came  he  was 
invaded  by  the  melancholy  of  departure.  He 
did  not  weep,  he  says,  but  he  was  filled  with 
depression,  as  c  with  sad  countenance '  he  put 
his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  dressed,  doubtless,  in 
his  favourite  black  or  white.  The  weather 
was  warm,  but  his  long  ccoat  of  no  fashion 
trimmed  with  rough  hair,'  and  the  two  caps 
that  he  wore  one  over  the  other,  cannot  have 
been  far  off,  for  he  was  a  chilly  person,  and 
always  provided  against  the  cold.  With  him 
went  his  younger  brother,  Bertrand,  Sieur  de 
Mattecoulon,  two  nobles  and  his  secretary,  to 
whom  must  be  added  the  Sieur  d'Etissac,  who 
met  them  later  on  their  way — a  son,  he  was,  of 
a  lady  to  whom  Montaigne  dedicated  an  essay. 
It  was  June,  1580,  when  they  set  out,  it  was 
November,  1581,  when  they  returned.  They 
set  out  for  nowhere,  except  that  at  some 
indefinite  date  they  were  to  reach  the  Baths 
of  Lucca.  For  it  was  one  of  Montaigne's 
stipulations  that  he  was  to  be  bound  neither 
by  time  nor  place.  If  some  traveller's  fancy 
took  him,  if  he  felt  a  sudden  wish  to  visit  or 
revisit  a  spot,  he  should,  he  announced,  obey 
his  whim,  going  and  coming  at  his  own 


FRONTISPIECE  OF  MONTAINE'S  "VOYAGE  EN  ITALIE." 

Engraved  by  Saint  Aubin. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       103 

season,  and  the  rest  might  follow  him,  or  not, 
as  they  would. 

He  began  with  France,  first  going  to  Paris, 
and  then  to  visit  the  Royalist  camp  at  La 
Fere.  This  northern  town  was  being  besieged 
by  the  great  Matignon,  and  here  Montaigne 
lingered  about  six  weeks.  Here  it  was,  say 
some,  that  he  presented  his  Essays  to  Henri  in. 
They  contained,  he  told  the  complimenting 
King,  nothing  but  discourses  concerning  his 
own  life.  Here,  too,  he  watched  the  death 
of  Grammont,  the  husband  of  La  belle 
Corisande,  Diane  d'Andouins,  that  mistress  of 
Henri  de  Navarre  to  whom  Montaigne  had 
dedicated  the  early  love-sonnets  of  La  Boetie. 

At  Plombieres  he  visited  Andelot — the  one 
survivor  of  the  great  Coligny  trio  :  his  face, 
he  says,  was  still  blanched  from  the  shock  of 
the  Admiral's  murder,  eight  years  before. 
And  so  he  reached  Switzerland,  came  to  Basel, 
where  he  saw  Hotman,  the  famous  pam- 
phleteer, and  went  on  through  Germany  and 
the  Tyrol  towards  the  South.  Unlike  most 
Epicurean  hermits,  Montaigne  had  given  up 
his  well-loved  habits  from  the  outset.  He 
exacted  nothing  from  his  landlords  but  clean- 
liness, and  decent  beds  and  hangings,  with 
tolerable  supplies  of  wine  and  food — crayfish  if 


104       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

possible.  One  of  the  few  complaints  that  he 
vented  was  the  absence  of  crayfish  in  Rovere. 
'As  to  food/  writes  his  secretary,  'we  had 
here  no  crayfish,  which  thing  M.  de  Mon- 
taigne found  very  strange,  seeing  that  ever 
since  we  left  Plombieres,  a  distance  of  two 
hundred  leagues,  this  dish  had  been  put  before 
us  at  every  meal.' 1 

As  to  company,  we  know  that  he  avoided 
that  of  his  fellow-countrymen,  and,  above  the 
rest,  he  shunned  those  who  c  talked  discom- 
forts/ to  his  mind  the  dullest  talk  of  all. 
Nothing  annoyed  him  more  than  to  be  guilty 
of  unwittingly  offending  local  feelings,  as 
when,  rather  naturally,  in  Augsburg,  he  held 
a  handkerchief  to  his  nose,  and  heard  that  his 
gesture  had  been  noticed  by  the  burghers.  He 
liked,  as  far  as  possible,  to  become  one  of  the 
men  among  whom  he  was  living,  and,  per- 
haps to  make  up  for  the  handkerchief,  he 
hastened  to  buy  a  new  fur  cap  of  the  Augs- 
burg fashion,  that  he  might  look  like  an  Augs- 
burg citizen.  In  Italy  he  danced  at  a  ball  in 
order  not  to  be  conspicuous.  And,  wherever 
he  stayed,  he  left  behind  him,  as  was  the 
custom  among  well-born  lodgers,  his  coat-of- 

1   The  Journal  of  Montaigne's  Travels,  edited  by  W.  G.  Waters, 
vol.  i.  p.  187. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       105 

arms  finely  emblazoned,  to  be  hung  up  as  a 
tribute  to  his  landlord. 

Over  mountain  passes,  through  smiling 
valleys,  the  party  rode  on  to  Innsbruck — with 
never  a  mention  of  Nature,  excepting  topo- 
graphical allusions,  or  references,  of  which 
there  are  plenty,  to  altitudes  and  produce,  to 
the  bareness  or  fertility  of  the  land.  Mon- 
taigne noted  any  great  building,  any  curiosity, 
any  fragment  of  antiquity  ;  he  noted  the  ugli- 
ness of  the  German  women  ;  he  took  what  he 
found  in  the  way  of  people,  he  hobnobbed 
indifferently  with  the  inmates  of  taverns,  or 
palaces  ;  he  lingered  in  hovels,  he  dined 
with  prelates  ;  he  conversed  with  priests  and 
heretical  ministers  ;  he  would  have  liked  to 
converse  with  princes,  but  at  Innsbruck  the 
Archduke  refused  to  receive  him  because  he 
was  a  Frenchman — his  only  grievance  on  the 
trip — and  he  had  to  put  up  with  the  Arch- 
duchess, whom  he  entertained  at  dinner.  And 
so  he  crossed  the  frontier  into  Italy.  Again 
no  mention  of  its  beauties,  only  frequent  de- 
scriptions of  the  grottos,  and  waterworks,  and 
ingenuities  of  the  princely  villas  that  he  saw 
on  his  road.  He  was  struck  with  the  differ- 
ences from  Germany  ;  with  the  way  in  which, 
outside  the  walls  of  a  city,  a  crowd  of c  Guides  ' 


io6       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

would  ride  out  to  meet  him,  each  recom- 
mending his  inn,  and  all  together  screaming 
and  gesticulating  till  they  entered  the  town, 
where  they  fell  silent,  in  fear,  most  likely,  of 
the  police.  Montaigne  quizzed  them — they 
greatly  amused  him,  as  things  still  amuse 
tourists  in  Italy  to-day.  He  consorted  with 
celebrities.  At  Florence,  he  dined  with 
the  Duke  and  Bianca  Capella ;  at  Venice, 
Veronica  Franca,  that  most  notorious,  most 
Titianesque  of  ladies,  sent  him  her  little  effort 
in  literature,  the  volume  of  her  Lettere  diverse. 
At  Ferrara,  he  visited  Tasso  in  his  pathetic 
confinement  in  a  monastery.  And  at  last  he 
came  to  Rome — Rome,  to  him  ever  the  centre 
of  the  world.  When  he  got  there,  it  was 
strangely  familiar  to  him. 

'  The  State/  he  says,  c  of  that  ancient  Rome, 
free,  righteous,  and  flourishing  (for  I  love 
neither  its  birth  nor  its  old  age),  interests, 
impassions  me.  However  many  times  I  might 
see  the  lie  of  its  streets,  of  its  houses,  or  those 
ruins  whose  bases  are  hid  as  deep  as  the  anti- 
podes, I  should  never  be  weary  of  them.  Is 
it  by  nature,  or  is  it  some  error  of  fancy  that 
the  sight  of  places  the  which  we  know  to 
have  been  haunted  and  inhabited  by  persons 
of  glorious  memory  moves  us  in  some  strange 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       107 

fashion,  more  than  when  we  hear  the  story  of 
their  deeds,  or  read  their  writings  ?  .  .  .  I 
turn  these  great  names  over  and  over  upon  my 
tongue,  and  make  them  resound  in  my  ears.' ] 

This  is  the  most  emotional  reference  that 
Montaigne  made  to  his  travels.  He  says  in 
prose  what  Joachim  Du  Bellay  said  in  poetry, 
and  he  was  invaded  with  the  same  overpower- 
ing sense  of  a  past  which  dwarfs  and  dulls  the 
present.  The  Rome  of  the  Renaissance  did  not 
please  him.  '  He  declared  that  the  buildings 
of  this  bastard  Rome,  which  were  now  being 
joined  on  to  the  ancient  masonry .  .  .  reminded 
him  exactly  of  the  nests  the  martins  and  crows 
were  building  in  the  roofs  and  on  the  walls 
of  the  French  churches  which  the  Huguenots 
had  destroyed.'  2 

Yet  this  despised  present  was  alive  enough  to 
him.  Cardinals  fetched  him  in  their  coaches 
and  showed  him  the  sights.  He  soon,  how- 
ever, found  his  way  about  alone.  He  had  at 
first  engaged  a  Frenchman  as  guide,  but  c  this 
fellow  took  himself  off  in  some  ridiculous  fit 
of  ill-humour,  whereupon  M.  de  Montaigne 
prided  himself  on  mastering  by  his  own  efforts 

1  Essais,  iii.  9  :  '  De  la  VaniteV 

2  The  Journal  of  Montaigne's  Travels,  edited  by  W.  G.  Waters, 
vol.  ii.  p.  97. 


io8       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

the  arts  of  a  guide.  In  the  evening,  he  would 
study  certain  books  and  maps,  and  next  day 
repair  to  the  spot  ...  so  that  in  a  few  days 
he  could  have  shown  his  guide  the  way.' 1 

He  was  admitted  to  the  Vatican  Library,  and 
delighted  in  the  editions  of  Virgil,  Plutarch, 
and  Seneca  that  he  found  there,  noting,  also, 
that  the  handwriting  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas 
was  even  worse  than  his  own.  Everything 
was  food  for  his  curiosity.  '  There  were 
sermons  to  be  listened  to  at  all  seasons,  or 
disputes  in  theology  ' ;  or  else  he  sought c  diver- 
sion '  with  notorious  ladies,  for  no  other  reason 
than  the  c  privilege  of  simple  conversation 
(.  .  .  desiring  to  hear  them  talk,  and  to  take 
part  in  their  play  of  wit)  '  ;  but  this  amuse- 
ment he  had  to  give  up  on  the  ground  of 
economy,  because  the  ladies  '  charged  '  so  c  ex- 
tortionately.'  He  was  fond  of  life  in  streets  and 
churches.  He  witnessed  a  miracle  of  exorcism 
in  c  a  small  chapel '  that  he  chanced  to  enter. 
He  saw  the  races  in  the  Corso,  and  got  a 
seat  in  the  best  stand  for  three  crowns.  He 
was  present  at  the  Mass  at  Christmas  in  St. 
Peter's,  and  heard  legends  of  poison  in  the 
Pyx.  The  chatter  of  the  attendant  prelates 

1   The  Journal  of  Montaigne's  Travels,  edited  by  W.  G.  Waters, 
vol.  ii.  p.  95. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       109 

shocked  him — as  much  as  he  could  be  shocked. 
He  witnessed  a  great  Papal  procession,  and 
he  had  audience  of  Pope  Gregory  xin.,  who 
graciously  extended  his  scarlet  shoe,  with  its 
white  cross,  slightly  upwards,  so  that  Mon- 
taigne might  reach  it  more  easily. 

The  action  might  be  taken  symbolically. 
The  Vatican  was  prepared  to  stretch  a  point, 
and  make  things  easy  for  Montaigne.  Before 
he  had  done  with  Rome,  the  first  two  Books 
of  his  Essays  were  found  in  his  trunk,  and 
carried  off  to  the  Censor,  and  he  himself 
was  summoned  before  a  council  of  prelates. 
When  the  volume  was  sent  back  to  him 
he  found  it  4  expurgated  and  brought  into 
harmony  with  the  opinions  of  the  monkish 
doctors.  The  Maestro  del  Sacro  Palazzo  could 
only  pronounce  judgment  on  it  from  the  report 
of  a  certain  French  monk,  for  he  himself  was 
ignorant  of  our  language  ;  but  he  was  so  fully 
satisfied  with  the  explanation  I  gave  him  of 
all  those  passages  to  which  exception  had 
been  taken  by  the  Frenchman,  that  he  left 
to  me  the  task  of  correcting,  according  to  my 
conscience,  everything  which  might  appear 
wanting  in  good  taste.' l 

1  The  Journal  of  Montaigne's  Travels,  edited  by  W.  G.  Waters, 
vol.  ii.  p.  139. 


no       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

The  Maestro's  confidence  was  large,  and 
Montaigne  did  not  work  his  conscience  very 
hard  on  the  subject.  He  was  accused  of  attri- 
buting everything  to  fortune  ;  of  mentioning 
the  poetry  of  Beze,  the  heretic  ;  of  praising 
Julian  the  Apostate  ;  of  saying  (strange  sin) 
that  a  man  must  be  purged  from  vice  before 
he  prayed  ;  of  stating  that  c  it  is  cruelty  to 
inflict  .  .  .  more  pain  than  is  necessary  to  kill 
men/  and  that  'children  should  be  brought 
up  to  examine  all  sides  of  a  question.'  Mon- 
taigne characteristically  got  off  by  averring  that 
these  were  only  his  private  opinions  and  not 
his  opinions  as  a  Catholic.  He  was  asked  to 
amend  the  dubious  points  in  his  next  edition, 
and  he  promised  to  do  so.  But  the  '  Maestro, 
who  was  a  man  of  parts,  completely  exonerated 
me,  and  was  anxious  to  let  me  see  that  he  set 
small  value  on  these  emendations.'  When  the 
new  edition  appeared  they  were  not  there,  and 
all  was  the  same  as  before. 

Montaigne  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  very 
popular  in  Rome.  He  found  no  difficulty  in 
gaining  the  one  honour  which  he  really  cared 
to  have,  and  which  he  sought,  as  he  tells  us, 
'  with  all  his  five  natural  senses.'  This  was 
the  citizenship  of  Rome,  which  had  to  be 
conferred  by  a  Papal  Bull.  Why  he  thus 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       in 

sought  a  prize  so  useless  to  him  it  is  difficult 
to  say.  Did  he  perhaps  like  to  practise  his 
Plutarch,  and  fancy  himself  a  Roman  citizen 
of  ancient  days  ?  Whatever  his  motive,  he 
got  what  he  wanted.  The  Pope's  major- 
domo  helped  him,  the  right  powers  were 
approached,  and,  before  he  departed,  he  had 
the  distinction  that  he  coveted. 

Montaigne  left  Rome  with  regret ;  his  only 
complaint  was  that  he  met  too  many  French- 
men there.  But  the  season  for  the  Baths  of 
Lucca  had  come,  and  he  set  out  to  take  his 
cure.  On  the  way  he  stopped  at  Loreto,  to 
visit  its  great  shrine  and  to  deposit  within  its 
walls  three  silver  statues — of  himself,  of  his 
wife,  and  of  Lenor.  But  once  at  the  Baths, 
no  more  sight-seeing  for  him  ;  he  gave  himself 
up  to  the  business  in  hand — to  careful,  clinical 
observation  of  the  results  of  the  waters,  and 
much  note-taking  about  the  merits  of  his  lodg- 
ings. And  he  participated  in  the  life  going 
on  around  him  —  the  life  of  a  fashionable 
watering-place — deliberately,  for  purposes  of 
hygiene.  '  He  who  doth  not  bring  spirits 
enough  to  enjoy  the  company  he  findeth  there 
.  .  .  without  doubt  loseth  the  best  and  surest 
part  of  their  effect.' l 

1   Essats,  ii.  37  :  <De  la  Ressemblance  des  enfants  aux  peres,' 


ii2       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

So  Montaigne  even  went  the  length  of 
giving  a  ball  to  the  people  of  the  town.  He 
was  anxious,  he  said,  to  give  the  first  of  the 
season.  It  began  in  the  Piazza  and  ended  in 
the  Palazzo  Buonvisi.  There  were  a  hundred 
guests.  He  engaged  five  pipers,  and  bought 
4  nineteen  prizes  for  the  ladies '  (in  this  case 
for  the  peasant  ladies — the  richer  people  only 
took  part  in  the  dancing),  and  he  hung  up  his 
prizes  in  a  richly  decked  hoop.  There  were 
bombazine  aprons  and  netted  head-dresses  and 
pearl  necklaces.  c  I  went  about,'  adds  this 
connoisseur  of  the  graces,  '  glancing  now  at 
this  damsel  and  now  at  that,  never  failing  to 
allow  due  credit  for  beauty  and  charm.'  He 
would  not  permit  a  '  damsel '  who  '  was  not 
over  well-favoured '  to  receive  a  prize  at  all. 
However,  he  was  kinder  at  the  banquet  which 
followed  ;  for  c  I  found,'  he  writes,  c  a  place  at 
table  for  Divizia,  a  poor  peasant  woman  who 
lives  about  two  miles  from  the  Baths,  un- 
married, and  with  no  other  support  than  her 
handiwork.  She  is  ugly,  about  thirty-seven 
years  of  age,  with  a  swollen  throat,  and  unable 
either  to  read  or  write.' l  But  Divizia  had  had 
an  uncle  who  constantly  read  aloud  Ariosto 

1   The  Journal  of  Montaigne's  Travels,  edited  by  W.  G.  Waters, 
vol.  iiif  p.  72-3. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       113 

c  and  others  of  the  poets '  ;  and,  finding  c  a 
natural  delight  in  poetry/  she  had  taken  to 
making  verses  herself.  She  recited  some  now, 
in  her  host's  honour,  and  Montaigne,  good 
humouredly  content  with  this  rather  un- 
attractive Muse,  felt  his  ball  to  have  been  a 
great  success. 

He  made  two  stays  at  the  Baths,  although 
he  had  no  great  belief  in  getting  cured,  and, 
following  no  rules  but  his  own,  chose  to 
take  the  waters  as  he  thought  best.  It  was 
towards  the  end  of  his  second  visit,  on  Sep- 
tember yth,  1581,  that  he  received  a  letter 
which  changed  his  prospects.  It  came  from 
Bordeaux,  and  it  told  him  that,  a  month  before, 
he  had  been  elected  mayor  of  that  city.  The 
open  foe  of  responsibility,  he  now  put  his  pre- 
cepts in  practice,  and  his  first  answer  was  that 
he  c  wished  to  be  excused.'  Five  days  later  he 
was  on  his  way  to  Rome,  but  when  he  got  there 
he  found  a  letter  from  the  Bordeaux  authorities 
urging  his  return.  He  obeyed,  leaving  his 
brother  and  Etissac  behind  him,  and  on  Octo- 
ber ist,  he  started  homewards  by  way  of  Mont 
Cenis,  now  on  horseback,  now  carried  in  a 
litter.  The  journey  took  him  two  months, 
and  it  was  not  till  November  3Oth,  that  he 
arrived  at  Montaigne. 

H 


ii4       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

He  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  rest  there. 
Shortly  before  he  reached  home,  the  king 
himself  had  written  ordering  him  to  accept 
the  appointment  if  he  did  not  wish  to  incur 
His  Majesty's  displeasure.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  yield,  and  Montaigne  the  philo- 
sopher became  Montaigne  the  mayor. 

It  must  have  consoled  him  that  his  fathers 
had  held  the  office  before  him.  His  election 
was  generally  popular.  His  predecessor,  the 
great  Marechal  de  Biron,  a  vehement  man, 
none  too  judicious,  had  fallen  out  with  king 
and  people,  and  the  new  mayor's  moderation 
was  a  relief.  So  great,  indeed,  was  his 
success  that  at  the  end  of  his  two-years 
tenure  of  office  he  was  re-elected,  and  was 
thus  mayor  for  four  years,  from  1581  to  1585. 

But  the  story  of  Montaigne's  mayoralty 
makes  perhaps  the  dullest  chapter  of  his  life. 
He  was  just  the  official  he  would  lead  us  to 
expect,  performing  all  the  duties  required  of 
him  and  something  more,  but  doing  nothing 
signal  or  heroic.  His  first  and  his  last  acts 
were  in  defence  of  the  weak  and  helpless  :  his 
first,  an  attempt  to  amend  the  treatment  of 
the  foundling  children  neglected  by  their 
proper  guardians,  the  Jesuits  ;  his  last,  to 
protest  against  the  imprisonment  of  women 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       115 

and  children.  And  he  lightened  the  miseries 
of  the  poor  by  refusing  to  allow  the .  rich  to 
be  exempt  from  taxation — by  trying,  too,  to 
make  the  religious  houses  take  their  part,  and 
every  parish  bear  its  own  burdens.  Nor  did 
he  want  for  other  activities.  He  busied 
himself  with  the  reconstruction  of  a  light- 
house where  the  Gironde  meets  the  sea  ;  he 
did  his  best  to  promote  free  navigation  ;  he 
was  concerned  with  education,  and  improved 
the  College  of  the  Jesuits,  as  well  as  his  own 
old  school,  the  College  de  Guienne.  With 
his  great  dislike  of  making  an  effect,  he  was 
more  prone  to  underrate  his  deeds  than  other- 
wise. When  he  first  came  home,  he  warned 
the  electors  of  his  failings  ;  he  was  '  without 
memory,  without  vigilance,  without  experi- 
ence, and  without  vigour  ;  but  also  without 
hatred,  without  ambition,  without  avarice, 
and  without  violence.'  '  He  might,'  he  told 
them,  'lend  himself  to  the  public,  but  give 
himself  he  would  not,  and  could  not.' l  Yet 
he  probably  did  more  by  courage  and  serenity 
than  others  achieve  by  qualities  more  showy. 

During  his  first  two  years  he  was  present  at 
the  opening  of  a  new  Court  of  Justice — the 
Court  of  Guienne — instituted  to  negotiate 

1  Montaigne  :  Dowden. 


n6       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

between  the  hostile  factions  in  the  province. 
It  was  held  at  Bordeaux,  although  its  members 
were  drawn  from  elsewhere,  and  the  most 
interesting  thing  about  it  is  that  one  of  its 
members,  De  Thou  (the  grandson  of  THopital), 
who  was  to  be  a  famous  historian,  and  was 
then  a  young  man  of  twenty-one,  gives  us  his 
impression  of  Montaigne  :  '  a  man,'  he  calls 
him,  '  of  frank  and  open  nature,  hostile  to  all 
constraint,  one  who  had  entered  into  no  cabal, 
well  versed,  moreover,  in  our  affairs,  chiefly 
in  those  of  Guienne,  his  native  province.' 

Meanwhile,  the  country  was  disturbed  from 
other  causes  than  those  arising  from  the  wars. 
The  domestic  affairs  of  Henri  de  Navarre 
were  setting  the  south  of  France  by  the  ears. 
In  1583,  Henri  in.  expelled  his  sister,  Mar- 
guerite de  Navarre,  from  Paris,  and  her 
husband,  who  had  also  cast  her  out,  saw  that 
he  would  have  once  more  to  receive  her.  In 
vengeance  on  the  king,  who  had  reduced  him 
to  this  disagreeable  necessity,  he  seized  the 
town  of  Mont-de-Marsan  and  held  it.  It 
was  policy  to  stand  well  with  Montaigne,  the 
mayor  of  the  chief  town  in  Guienne,  and  he 
bade  Du  Plessis  Mornay  write  him  a  series  of 
letters  seeking  to  win  his  suffrage.  Mon- 
taigne, in  a  tight  place,  between  this  prince 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       117 

and  Matignon,  the  governor  of  the  province 
and  thus  the  representative  of  the  Crown,  got 
out  of  the  difficulty  by  evasion  :  he  only 
corresponded  with  Matignon,  he  did  not  meet 
him  ;  and  the  next  year,  1584,  events  them- 
selves came  to  his  aid.  Henri  m.'s  brother, 
the  Due  d'Anjou,  who  stood  next  to  the 
French  throne,  died,  and  his  cousin,  Navarre, 
became  the  heir.  Navarre  had  to  change  his 
tactics,  and,  from  the  first,  Montaigne  attached 
himself  to  him,  without  weakening  his  allegi- 
ance to  the  king. 

The  alliance  was  cemented  in  1584.  Mon- 
taigne had  been  attempting  to  arrange  matters 
between  Matignon  and  the  King  of  Navarre ; 
that  sovereign  was  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  chateau  of  Montaigne,  and,  inspired  no 
doubt  by  curiosity,  he  invited  himself  to  stay 
there  with  forty  followers.  He  remained  for 
two  days,  and  Montaigne  made  for  him  the 
only  sacrifice  of  his  personal  ease  that  we  can 
discover  in  his  life — he  gave  him  his  own  bed 
to  sleep  in.  The  visit  was  a  diplomatic 
victory,  for  all  difficulties  were  satisfactorily 
settled,  and  Montaigne  ended  it  by  providing 
Henri  with  two  days' hunting  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  philosopher  was  no  doubt  fasci- 
nated by  the  prince.  Three  years  later,  after 


u8       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

the  battle  of  Coutras,  we  find  him  again  a 
guest  at  the  chateau. 

The  feuds  of  the  Ligue — that  combination 
of  Guise  and  the  Catholic  nobles  against  the 
throne — were  harder  to  deal  with.  There 
came  a  time,  not  long  after,  when  Bordeaux 
was  threatened  both  by  the  Ligueurs  and  the 
Huguenots.  Montaigne  kept  watch  one 
whole  night  in  the  port,  because  his  fears  had 
been  aroused  by  the  presence  there  of  an 
armed  vessel.  But,  with  Matignon's  help,  he 
warded  off  the  peril. 

The  close  of  his  term  of  office  was  not  a 
glorious  one.  At  the  end  of  his  time  the 
plague  broke  out  in  the  city,  and,  with  a  good 
sense  which  was  rather  ignominious,  Mon- 
taigne fled  outside  its  walls  and  asked  to 
tender  his  resignation  to  Matignon  at  a  safe 
distance  from  the  town.  Bordeaux  itself 
wished  to  re-elect  him,  but  he  had  decided 
to  retire,  and  Matignon  was  chosen  as  his 
successor.  The  ex-mayor  withdrew  to  his 
tower,  and  for  two  or  three  years  we  hear 
little  of  him. 

One  friendship,  made  while  he  was  mayor, 
meant  much  to  him.  It  was  during  this 
time  that  he  learned  to  know  Francis  Bacon's 
brother,  Anthony,  who  spent  twelve  years  in 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       119 

France,  and  a  great  part  of  them  at  Bordeaux. 
Here  he  constantly  stayed  between  1583  and 
1591,  and  here  he  became  intimate  with 
Montaigne.  After  he  returned  to  England, 
they  corresponded  till  Montaigne's  death. 
No  doubt  Francis  Bacon  often  saw  the  letters 
from  France  and  listened  to  his  brother's 
stories  of  their  writer — of  what  he  said,  and 
how  he  lived.  Montaigne  left  him  other 
bequests  than  that  word  '  Essays,'  which  he 
had  made  so  glorious. 

Anthony  Bacon's  letters  were  probably 
events  to  Montaigne.  Another  pleasure  came 
to  him  in  these  later  days  :  a  great  wish  of  his 
was  fulfilled.  He  had  long  desired  a  disciple 
— a  friend  of  his  intellect — and  such  a  one 
appeared.  This  was  Pierre  Charron,  a  scepti- 
cal ecclesiastic  of  pleasant  countenance  and 
gay,  easy-going  manners,  an  ardent  admirer 
of  Montaigne,  and  inspired  with  a  keen  wish 
to  make  his  personal  acquaintance.  In  1586, 
he  came  to  stay  in  the  chateau.  His  admira- 
tion warmed  Montaigne's  heart,  his  com- 
panionship stimulated  him  ;  and,  what  is 
more,  Charron's  learning,  more  methodical 
than  that  of  Montaigne,  helped  him  towards 
some  ordering  of  his  thoughts.  It  may  well 
be  that  Charron's  influence  went  for  some- 


120       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

thing  in  the  writing  of  the  Third  Book  of 
the  Essays. 

This  was  finished  by  1588,  and  Montaigne 
went  to  Paris  to  superintend  the  publication 
of  the  first  edition.  On  this  journey  it  was 
that  the  robbers,  at  least  fifteen  in  number, 
took  him  prisoner,  and  then,  charmed  by  his 
countenance,  set  him  free.  He  reached  Paris 
safely,  but  probably  he  did  not  enjoy  it  long. 
Most  historians  agree  that  this  must  have 
been  the  time  that  he  had  the  dangerous  ill- 
ness mentioned  by  one  who  knew  him,  the 
poet,  Pierre  de  Brach.  c  He  conquered  death 
by  contemning  it,'  said  this  friend  ;  but,  what- 
ever the  remedy,  he  recovered. 

He  had  come  to  a  world  distraught  by 
revolution.  Paris  was  torn  by  the  struggle 
between  the  King  and  the  Ligue,  and  it  was 
during  Montaigne's  sojourn  that  the  crisis 
supervened,  and  the  King  left  Paris  to  Guise 
and  his  partisans.  Montaigne  was  loyal  to 
the  Crown  and  followed  Henri  out  of  the 
city,  and  when,  soon  upon  this,  he  returned,  he 
was  clapped  by  the  Ligueurs  into  the  Bastille. 
It  was  discovered  that  this  act  of  violence  was 
mere  retaliation — a  form  of  revenge  for  Henri's 
imprisonment  of  a  Normandy  gentleman — and 
after  a  few  hours'  confinement  (the  shortest 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       121 

confinement  perhaps  on  record)  he  was  re- 
leased by  express  order  of  Catherine  de'  Medici 
— the  fitting  deliverer  of  such  a  captive.  This 
seems  to  be  the  only  occasion  on  which  the 
two  great  opportunists  came  into  direct  rela- 
tion with  one  another,  and  it  bore  no  fruit  of 
subsequent  intercourse.  Nor  did  it  affect 
Montaigne  otherwise.  But  the  episode  was 
his  nearest  approach  to  martyrdom,  and  its 
brevity  is  characteristic. 

The  next  year  still  found  him  away  from 
home  and  following  the  movements  of  the 
Court.  He  was  present  at  the  fateful  opening 
of  the  Etats  de  Blois  ;  we  know  that  he 
talked  to  De  Thou  there,  and  to  the  royal 
geographer,  Laval  ;  we  know,  too,  that  he 
and  the  poet,  Etienne  Pasquier,  had  a  con- 
versation about  the  Essays.  Pasquier  cavilled 
at  the  Gasconisms  he  found  in  them ;  critic-like, 
he  was  sure  he  had  made  an  impression  upon 
the  author.  But  when  the  edition  of  1595 
appeared,  not  a  word  that  he  questioned  had 
been  changed.  Montaigne,  however,  did  not 
stay  on  at  Blois  ;  he  was  not  there  for  the  final 
catastrophe.  The  news  of  Henri's  murder  of 
Guise  reached  him  at  Montaigne  ;  so  did  the 
tidings,  not  long  after,  of  the  assassination  of 
the  King. 


122       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

That  event  largely  altered  Montaigne's  pro- 
spects, for  it  put  his  friend,  Navarre,  upon  the 
throne.  It  was  yet  three  years  before  he 
established  his  position  and  France  formally 
acknowledged  him  as  Henri  iv.  ;  but  in  point 
of  fact,  he  was  king  from  the  first  moment. 

Had  Montaigne  lived  long  into  his  reign, 
his  influence  would  have  left  strong  traces. 
As  it  was,  in  the  three  years  before  his  death, 
he  was  not  without  effect  upon  the  royal 
counsels. 

c  I  have,'  he  wrote  to  him  in  1590,  '  always 
beheld  in  you  this  same  dignity  of  fortune  the 
which  you  have  reached  ;  and  you  may  re- 
member that  even  when  I  had  to  confess  as 
much  to  my  cure^  I  did  not  for  a  moment 
leave  off  considering  your  successes  with 
approval.  Nowadays  when  I  have  more  reason 
and  more  liberty  I  embrace  your  triumphs 
with  a  complete  affection.' 

And  later  in  the  same  year  he  makes  bold 
to  reprove  him  : 

c  I  should  have  wished  that  the  private 
gains  of  the  soldiers  of  your  army,  and  the 
need  to  content  them  had  not  deprived 
you  in  this  capital  city  of  a  noble  name  for 
having,  in  the  midst  of  victory,  treated 
your  mutinous  subjects  with  greater  indul- 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       123 

gence  than  is  used  by  their  protectors.  And 
would  that,  instead  of  an  ill-gotten,  transitory 
reputation,  you  had  shown  that  they  were 
yours  by  your  truly  royal,  fatherly  protec- 
tion. To  conduct  such  affairs  as  you  have 
in  hand,  you  must  use  means  that  are  out 
of  the  common.  .  .  .  There  was  a  great 
conqueror  of  the  past  who  was  wont  to  boast 
that  he  had  given  to  the  foes  whom  he  had 
conquered  as  much  cause  to  love  him  as  to 
his  friends.' 

The  king  would  never  have  been  offended 
with  anything  that  Montaigne  said.  A  strong 
personal  affection  had  grown  up  between  them. 
c  I  take  it  as  a  singular  favour  that  His  Majesty 
hath  deigned  to  let  me  feel  that  he  would  care 
to  see  me ' — thus  he  wrote  when  he  had,  too 
late,  received  a  summons  to  meet  the  king  at 
Tours — '  A  futile  person  I  am,  indeed,  yet  his, 
rather  by  affection  than  by  duty.' 

And  the  affection  was  wholly  disinterested. 
When  Henri  wrote  to  him  asking  what  reward 
he  would  like  for  his  services,  Montaigne's 
reply  was  that  he  had  all  that  he  wanted,  and 
wished  for  nothing  but  the  payment  of  such 
expenses  as  might  leave  him  out  of  pocket 
when  he  should  be  in  attendance  upon  the 
king.  And  the  king,  who  understood  him, 


124       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

acquiesced,    and    only    repaid    him    with    his 
confidence. 

What  a  wonderful  reign  it  would  have 
been  had  Henri  iv.  had  Montaigne  for  Prime 
Minister.  Many  things  would  have  happened 
that  did  happen — some  would  not  have  been 
allowed  to  happen — considerably  more  would 
have  been  added.  And  how  richly  these  two 
past-masters  in  savoir-faire  would  have  enter- 
tained one  another  ! 


harLtj&s  Elcrits  nontqttvn  tnora  te  di 
Jit  n'aura?cf)c?,(roisRN4Y  que  hucr 


MARIE  JARS  DE  GOURNAY. 

by  herself  for  her  book  " Advis  et  P: 
(Bibliotheqne  Nationale.) 

(From  a  photograph  by  At.  Giraudon.) 


From  the  frontispiece  chosen  by  herself  for  her  book  "Advis  et  Preseus"  in  the  edition  of  1641. 
(Bibliothcque  Nationale.) 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       125 


IV 

IT  was  typical  of  Montaigne's  life  that  per- 
haps its  most  amusing  episode  should  have 
been  kept  for  the  last.  His  friendship  with 
Mademoiselle  Marie  le  Jars  de  Gournay  was  the 
spice  at  the  close  of  the  feast :  the  first  friend- 
ship in  the  modern  spirit  between  an  admiring 
young  woman  and  a  man  of  letters  who  likes 
to  be  admired.  Admiration  seems,  indeed, 
too  mild  a  word  for  Marie  de  Gournay 's  senti- 
ment :  it  was  nearer  hero-worship.  And 
Montaigne,  the  scorner  of  women,  would 
not  have  been  a  man  had  he  not  enjoyed  it. 
Who  can  tell  what  would  have  happened 
had  he  met  her  earlier  in  life  ?  His  very 
contempt  of  her  sex  was  based  upon  his  feel- 
ing of  what  women  might  be  if  they  could 
but  cultivate  the  mind.  When  he  finally 
met  one  who  was  intellectual,  he  gave  her 
companionship  upon  equal  terms.  And  there 
were  no  looks  to  allure  him.  Like  La 
Boetie,  she  was  rather  ugly  than  otherwise, 
with  a  round  face  and  prominent  eyes.  In- 


126       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

deed,  in  later  years,  when  some  baseless  scandal 
was  spread  abroad  concerning  her,  it  was  said 
that  her  best  defence  would  be  to  show  her- 
self. There  must  have  been  a  rare  force 
of  mind,  distinction,  a  vivid  intelligence,  in 
the  woman  who  so  attracted  Montaigne.  She 
did  not  only  respond,  she  contributed.  Yet 
the  intellect  was  not  the  only  element  in  her 
relations  with  him  ;  they  were  Platonic,  but 
they  were  personal.  He  was  an  elderly  man, 
she  was  young  and  she  was  feminine  ;  he 
was  an  author,  she  a  reader  ;  there  was 
flattery  in  her  attitude,  and  he  was  getting 
jaded — perhaps  in  need  of  flattery.  There  are 
too  many  obvious  reasons  for  their  friendship 
to  make  it  any  sure  test  of  Montaigne's  standards. 
And,  strange  to  say,  her  feeling  was  for  the 
author  more  than  for  the  man.  She  had  an 
inborn  faculty  for  letters  which  had  inspired 
her  lonely  life  long  before  she  knew  him. 
She  was  born  in  1565,  thirty-two  years  after 
Michel  de  Montaigne,  and  she  had  lived 
in  the  compulsory  solitude  of  the  family 
chateau  in  Picardy,  thrown  back  upon  her 
own  resources.  She  quickly  developed  a  taste 
— a  passionate  taste — for  learning  ;  it  served 
her  instead  of  human  intercourse,  for  of  this 
she  had  none.  Her  father  died  early  in  her 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       127 

life.  Her  mother,  an  eccentric  lady  of  rank, 
had  no  sympathy  with  her  daughter,  and  the 
greatest  contempt  for  every  branch  of  know- 
ledge. Marie  had  a  remarkable  will  as  well 
as  a  remarkable  brain.  For  her  the  moral 
and  intellectual  became  one  in  her  arduous 
scheme  of  discipline.  She  had  no  teachers — 
she  taught  herself.  By  means  of  ponderous 
translations  she  mastered  Latin  enough,  in 
after  days,  to  translate  Virgil  ;  she  studied 
Greek  ;  she  pored  over  grammar  ;  she  steeped 
herself  in  criticism  and  poetry.  She  also 
absorbed  herself  in  chemistry  and  in  alchemy, 
over  which,  later  on,  she  was  rash  enough  to 
spend  large  sums.  She  had,  she  tells  us,  '  a 
boiling-hot  temper  '  ;  she  did  not  easily  forget 
an  injury  ;  she  was  impetuous  ;  she  had  a 
trenchant  wit ;  her  mind  was  not  inclined 
to  piety.  To  her  it  seemed  presumptuous 
that  a  mortal  should  dare  to  adore  the  Deity. 

Le  fini  1'infini  ?     L'ouvrage  son  Auteur  ? 
Un  atome,  un  neant,  Tunique  Createur  ? l 

Thus  she  questioned.  And  this  sixteenth- 
century  Mary  Wollstonecraft  was  full  of 
theories  about  the  heart.  Unlike  the  more 
modern  woman,  she  proclaimed  that  she  had 
no  need  of  the  love  that  is  ordinarily  given 

1  Peinture  de;  Mceurs :  Mademoiselle  de  Gournay. 


128       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

to  her  sex  ;  she  pleaded  for  a  spiritualised 
passion.  When  Montaigne  arrived,  he  only 
embodied  a  long-cherished  idea.  It  was  in 
1583,  or  1584,  that  she  came  across  the 
first  two  Books  of  the  Essays.  She  read 
with  such  excitement  that  her  relations  had 
to  administer  hellebore  as  a  sedative  to  her 
nerves  ;  it  was  only  her  resolve  to  culti- 
vate calm  like  Montaigne  that  had  power 
to  tranquillise  her.  She  had,  she  tells  us,  but 
one  desire — she  c  began  to  wish  to  know  the 
author  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.' 
Two  or  three  years  after,  she  heard  a  rumour 
of  his  death,  'from  the  which  she  suffered 
an  extreme  sorrow,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that 
all  the  glory  and  happiness  and  riches  of  her 
soul  were  mown  down  like  grass  by  the  loss 
of  the  companionship  and  converse  she  had 
promised  herself  to  hold  with  his  mind.'  The 
report  was  contradicted — she  breathed  again. 
Not  long  after,  she  came  to  Paris  with  her 
mother  ;  he  was  there.  She  took  her 
chance  ;  she  sent  a  letter  c  to  salute  him,'  and 
he  also  lost  no  time,  but  came  the  next  day  to 
see  her.  The  effect  was  instantaneous  :  he 
felt  like  a  father  towards  her ;  he  hailed 
her  as  his  '  adopted  daughter,'  '  the  which 
affection  she  received  with  the  more  plaudits 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       129 

for  that  she  was  astonished  at  the  predestined 
sympathy  between  their  geniuses,  she  having 
in  her  heart,  after  first  reading  his  book, 
foretold  just  such  a  friendship  upon  his  side, 
both  because  of  the  difference  in  their  ages 
and  the  outlook  of  their  souls  upon  life  and 
morals.' 

This  rather  high-flown,  practical  Egeria, 
when  she  got  what  she  wanted  made  the  most 
of  it.  It  is  easy  to  think  her  overstrained  and 
pompous.  If  no  charm  of  presence  or  of 
nature  transmits  itself  from  her  to  us  through 
the  centuries,  so  much  the  more  noteworthy 
is  her  survival  as  a  memorable  person,  apart 
from  her  master.  For  with  her  strong 
character,  she  wrested  content  from  adverse 
circumstances  and  eventually  won  happiness. 
It  was  something  like  a  miracle  to  emerge 
from  her  straitened  solitude  to  find  Montaigne ; 
to  discover  that  her  dream  of  knowing  him  had 
come  true  beyond  her  fondest  imaginations  ; 
to  realise  that  her  solitude  was  broken,  and 
broken  by  such  a  companion.  She  does  not 
inspire  sentiment  in  posterity,  and  yet  there  is 
something  like  pathos  in  the  strangely  sudden 
change  in  her  existence,  in  the  brevity  of  her 
brilliant  fortune.  She  lost  no  day  of  her  happi- 
ness, for  she  spent  eight  or  nine  months  in 

i 


i3o       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

Montaigne's  company  at  Paris,  discussing  with 
him  all  the  thoughts  and  subjects  over  which 
she  had  brooded  in  her  seclusion  ;  and,  after 
that,  he  paid  her  a  three  months'  visit  in  the 
chateau  in  Picardy.  How  the  mother  regarded 
her  daughter's  literary  romance,  how  she 
behaved,  remains  unknown.  Mademoiselle 
seems  to  have  taken  her  own  way,  like  the 
most  modern  of  young  women. 

And,  like  other  modern  young  women  of 
twenty-four,  she  wrote  a  novel,  a  very  dull 
one,  the  story  of  a  Persian  Princess.  It  was 
written  at  Montaigne's  instigation.  One  day 
he  and  she  had  been  reading  Plutarch  together ; 
they  had  been  discussing  tales  of  tragic  love 
and  the  fatal  results  of  passion.  Montaigne 
advised  her  to  write  a  romance — he  no  doubt 
often  revived  the  subject  upon  their  daily 
walks  about  the  countryside.  And  when 
he  had  gone,  she  consoled  herself  by  obeying 
his  suggestion.  She  set  to  work  with  a  rather 
drastic  energy,  and,  the  manuscript  once 
finished,  she  sent  it  off  by  express  messenger 
to  Gascony.  It  was  bulky,  and  it  was  called 
Le  Proumenoir  de  M.  de  Montaigne^  in  memory 
of  the  occasions  that  inspired  it ;  but  though 
M.  de  Montaigne  may  have  felt  flattered,  he 
can  hardly  have  felt  amused.  There  remains 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       131 

no  record  to  tell  us  whether  or  no  he  regretted 
his  advice. 

Her  aphorisms  were  more  interesting  than 
her  long  works.  A  few  of  these  adages  survive, 
strongly  flavoured  with  Montaigne,  yet  bold 
and  sufficiently  her  own  to  show  why  her 
mind  suited  his.  'A  good  man,'  she  said, 
'  will  sometimes,  may  often,  forgive  a  folly ;  a 
fool  will  not  forgive  wisdom.' 

c  The  soul  is  only  useful  to  the  common 
herd  as  salt  is  useful  to  the  pig — to  keep  it 
from  corruption.' 

'  Whoever  should  take  from  man  the  virtues 
that  he  practiseth  by  compulsion,  by  interest, 
or  by  chance  and  mere  inadvertence,  will  place 
him  nearer  to  the  animals  than  I  dare  confess.' 

'  When  I  consider  the  filthy  stains,  the 
nothingness  of  men,  I  sometimes  long  to 
believe  that  Heaven's  design  was  to  found 
each  of  our  great  towns  for  ten  souls  only, 
and  that  all  the  rest  were  created  to  serve  as 
candles  to  these  few  and  as  material  for  their 
divers  virtues.' 

'  Whoso  doth  not  perceive  his  virtues  will 
never  perceive  his  vices.' 

'  The  sun,  very  great  though  it  be,  seemeth 
to  enter  whole  into  a  mere  drop  of  water, 
and  man  appeareth  likewise  to  enter  whole 


1 32       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

into  one  action,  and  that  often  the  least  bril- 
liant of  his  life.' 

She  was  a  critic  of  style,  as  well  as 
of  conduct.  Her  own  taste,  like  that  of 
her  master,  made  her  prefer  the  simple  and 
sincere.  She  instinctively  disliked  all  preten- 
sion. '  Mon  DieuJ  she  wrote  of  some  inferior 
authors,  c  what  glory  and  what  diadems  ! 
How  much  looking  for  Palestine  a  hundred 
miles  the  other  side  of  Jordan  !  ' 

These  sayings  belong  to  a  later  period  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Gournay 's  existence,  but  the 
woman  who  could  think  and  express  herself 
thus  saliently  was  no  unworthy  companion  for 
Montaigne.  Their  main  subject  of  conversa- 
tion, whether  upon  their  strolls  or  at  home, 
was  not,  however,  Mademoiselle  de  Gournay 
or  her  writing.  It  was  Montaigne,  and  Mon- 
taigne's Essays.  She  offered  criticisms — 
Montaigne  delighted  in  them.  His  feeling 
for  her  increased  till  it  almost  amounted  to 
a  passion.  '  I  have/  he  says  in  one  of  the 
Essays?  '  taken  pleasure  in  proclaiming  in 
various  places  the  hopes  that  I  entertain  of 
Marie  de  Gournay  le  Jars,  my  adopted 
daughter,  surely  loved  by  me  with  much  more 
than  a  fatherly  love,  and  treasured  in  my  lonely 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  '  De  la  Presomption.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       133 

retreat  as  one  of  the  most  precious  parts  of 
my  own  being.  I  look  to  no  one  but  to  her 
now  in  the  world.  If  youth  can  give  any 
presage,  this  soul  of  hers  will  one  day  be 
capable  of  the  noblest  things.  The  criticisms 
that  she  made  of  my  first  Essays — she  a 
woman,  so  young,  so  solitary  in  her  country- 
side, and  living  in  such  an  age — the  devotion 
that  she  pledged  me  merely  on  the  good 
opinion  that  she  formed  of  me  long  before 
she  saw  me,  are  incidents  well  worthy  of 
meditation.' 

It  was  thus  that  Marie  de  Gournay,  the 
literary  confidante  of  Montaigne,  the  recipient 
of  his  wishes  about  the  Essays,  of  his  notes 
or  verbal  injunctions  concerning  changes  and 
amendments,  became  his  editor  after  his 
death.  Of  this  calamity  she  only  heard 
through  a  friend,  some  eight  months  after  it 
had  happened.  It  would  have  plunged  her 
in  despair  had  she  not  had  her  great  task  to 
sustain  her.  It  was  no  easy  one.  Her 
material,  it  is  true,  was  within  reach.  She 
had  the  manuscript  of  the  edition  of  1588, 
which  Madame  de  Montaigne  had  put  into 
the  hands  of  Montaigne's  friend,  Pierre  de 
Brach,  who,  in  his  turn,  gave  it  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Gournay.  And  there  were 


134       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

scholars  enough  if  she  wanted  guidance. 
But  she  was  taking  a  bold  step  ;  she  was,  per- 
haps, the  first  woman  editor,  in  an  age  when 
editing  was  a  fine  art.  And  she,  who  alone 
knew  the  many  alterations  that  Montaigne 
had  intended  to  make,  found  herself  con- 
fronted with  no  mean  difficulties.  She 
showed  courage  and  patience,  she  showed 
great  diligence.  She  often  had  to  work  up- 
on rough  notes  and  indications,  to  recall 
words,  to  decide  between  variants — she  labori- 
ously translated  all  Montaigne's  classical  quota- 
tions— and  this  at  a  time  when  her  natural 
vigour  was  dulled  by  her  sorrow.  '  I  with 
him,  and  I  without  him/  she  said,  '  are  two 
absolutely  different  beings.'  But  she  did  not 
rest  until  she  had  done  ;  the  edition  appeared 
in  1595.  It  was  only  then  that  she  felt  free 
to  seek  repose.  And  she  found  it  at  the 
chateau  of  Montaigne,  the  home  that  she 
had  never  seen  in  her  master's  lifetime, 
whither  she  now  journeyed  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  his  widow  and  his  daughter.  It  is 
to  the  credit  of  all  three  women  that  they 
became  close  friends,  and  that  Mademoiselle 
de  Gournay,  who  was  addicted  to  long  visits, 
stayed  with  them  for  fifteen  months.  It  is 
also  to  her  credit  that  in  the  later  edition 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       135 

which,  in  1635,  in  her  old  age,  she  presented 
to  Richelieu,  she  cut  down  Montaigne's 
eulogium  of  herself.1 

After  Montaigne's  death,  she  had  freedom, 
her  mother  having  died  a  year  before  him. 
And,  with  the  acquisition  of  freedom,  she  lost 
some  of  her  force,  and  narrowed  down  into 
the  literary  lady.  She  was  left  well-off  and  in- 
dependent, with  a  young  brother  and  sister  in 
her  charge,  and  she  lost  no  time  in  coming 
with  them  to  Paris,  with  the  purpose  of 
cultivating  men  of  letters  and  moving  in  dis- 
tinguished society.  She  delighted  in  keeping 
up  elaborate  correspondences  with  celebrated 
scholars.  Justus  Lipsius,  a  famous  savanf, 
living  in  the  Netherlands,  exchanged  periods 
with  her.  When  her  '  adopted  father  '  died, 
Lipsius  offered,  with  many  learned  scrolls  and 
flourishes,  to  become  her  c  adopted  brother.' 
In  such  amenities,  fit  for  a  Minerva,  her  soul 
delighted.  And,  after  her  own  fashion,  she 

1  M.  Mario  SchifF  thinks  that  in  the  edition  of  1595  Made- 
moiselle de  Gournay  has  indulged  her  romantic  imagination, 
and  that  she  actually  invented  and  inserted  the  high-flown 
praises  of  herself  which,  in  1635,  she  omitted.  It  must  be 
owned  that  the  omission  is  mysterious.  Modesty  is  not  enough 
to  account  for  it,  for  modesty  would  have  impelled  her  to  leave 
out  the  passage  altogether.  (See  Marie  de  Gournay  :  Mario 
Schiff.) 


136       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

enjoyed    the    world.       Like    other    prisoners 
suddenly    set    at    liberty,   she   gave   way,   she 
tells  us,  to  extravagance.     But  she  does  not 
seem    to    have    done    anything    much    more 
unbridled    than     keep    a    coach — which    was 
almost  a  necessity,  considering  the  condition 
of  Paris  pavements — and  two  footmen  where 
she  need  only  have  had  one.      She  also  had  a 
page,  and  a  page  well-suited  to  a  votaress  of 
literature,  for  he  was  the  illegitimate  son  of 
Ronsard's    page,   Amadis  Jamyn,   and    so,  as 
it  were,  a  kind  of  indirect  grandson   of  the 
Pleiade.      In   many   ways   Mademoiselle  was 
something    of    a     Spartan.       She    slept    on 
a    woollen     mattress  ;     she    had    no    women 
servants,  only,  for  some  months,  a  girl  who 
played  to  her  on  the  lute  to  dispel  her  melan- 
choly ;  her  table  was  simple  for  her  day,  and 
she  never  invited  more  than  a  few  guests. 

A  choice  circle  gathered  round  her.  She 
threw  herself  into  public  affairs,  and,  gradually 
giving  up  scholarship,  she  became  a  well- 
known  pamphleteer.  And  a  very  audacious 
one.  Although  her  pages  are  full  of  quota- 
tions and  reflections  from  Montaigne,  in  this 
she  was  the  opposite  of  him — that  she  was, 
to  use  modern  parlance,  a  born  revolu- 
tionary. Had  he  lived,  she  might  have 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       137 

remained  a  Conservative,  but,  with  her  bold 
instincts,  this  is  not  likely.      Her  treatise  on 
the   education  of  princes    might    easily  have 
sent    her    to    the    Bastille.       'All    men,'    it 
proclaims,     c  are    born    under    the    laws     of 
equality.        Each    one    of    those    who    will 
some    day    live    beneath    thy    [the  prince's] 
sceptre  is  capable  of  becoming  what  thou  art.' 
The  pamphlet   was   never   even    answered. 
No  more  was  her  defence  of  equal  rights  for 
women,  in  Grief  des  Dames  and  in  rtigalite  des 
hommes  et  des  jemmes — wine  new   enough   to 
burst  the  old  bottles.     Quite  as  heterodox  also 
was   her   Avis  aux  gens  d'&glise.       In    these 
matters  she  was  in  advance  of  her  time.      But 
her  chief  title  to  fame  lay  not  in  politics,  it 
lay  in  her  writings  on  the  French  language, 
and  here  she  changed  her  role.      She  did  not 
desire  the  new.      The  reforms  she  made  for 
were   only   revivals  ;   she   wished   to   preserve 
old    words,    to    resuscitate    many    long    since 
disused.     It  has  been  supposed  that  she  was 
the  herald  of  the  innovating  Hotel  de  Ram- 
bouillet,  but  this  is  far  from  the  truth.     She 
was  not  a  pioneer,  she  was  a  conserver.     Like 
most  originals,  she  was  laughed  at,  especially 
for  the   old  words   that  she   tried   to  restore. 
Saint-Evremond  wrote  a  play  to  ridicule  her, 


138       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

and  Richelieu,  with  questionable  taste,  paid 
her  a  sardonic  compliment,  couched  in  anti- 
quated terms  taken  from  her  works.  Her 
spirited  retort,  '  You  are  laughing  at  a  poor  old 
woman,  but  laugh,  great  genius,  laugh  on — 
every  one  must  contribute  to  your  amusement,' 
found  favour  with  the  Minister.  Never  was 
repartee  better  paid.  c  The  Cardinal,  surprised 
at  the  old  maid's  presence  of  mind,  asked  her 
pardon.'  Presently  he  told  his  follower,  Bois- 
robert,  that  '  something  must  be  done  for  her  ' 
— she  should  have  a  pension  of  two  hundred 
crowns. 

'  "  But  she  has  servants,"  said  Boisrobert. 
"  Who  are  they  ?  "  answered  the  Cardinal. 
"  Mademoiselle  Jamyn,"  replied  Boisrobert, 
the  bastard  of  Amadis  Jamyn,  the  page  of 
Ronsard."  "  I  give  him  fifty  Irvres  a  year," 
said  the  Cardinal.  "  Then  there  is  Madame 
Paillon,"  added  Boisrobert — "  that  is  the  cat." 
"  I  give  her  twenty  livres  a  year,"  rejoined  his 
Eminence,  "  on  condition  that  she  has  kittens." 
"  But,  monseigneur,  she  has  had  kittens,"  said 
Boisrobert.  The  Cardinal  added  one  pistole 
more  for  the  kittens.' * 

Those  who  laughed  at  her,  and  they  were 
many,  were  not  usually  as  kind  as  the  Minister. 

1  His t or ie ties  de  Tallemant  des  Reaux. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       139 

The  little  Academic  which,  together  with 
a  colleague  or  two,  she  founded  to  further 
her  ideas  concerning  language,  did  not  make 
them  laugh  the  less.  From  1637  onwards, 
it  met  in  her  salon,  an  Academic  in  name, 
but  in  fact  no  more  than  a  small  group  of 
poetasters  and  grammarians.  The  poetasters 
and  grammarians  of  other  groups  used  her  as 
their  target.  And  it  must  be  owned  that  she 
gave  them  opportunity.  She  indulged  in 
literary  mystifications  ;  proposed  to  publish 
a  complete  edition  of  Ronsard's  poems  ; 
doctored  them  with  long  interpolations  of 
her  own  —  supposed  improvements  —  c  to 
rescue  him  from  oblivion/  The  publication 
of  this  work  was  mercifully  prevented,  but  it 
did  not  add  to  her  reputation.  Her  conceit 
was  naif,  impregnable. 

When  she  showed  her  epigrams  to  a  well- 
known  poet  of  the  day,  and  he  told  her  that 
they  were  worthless  and  without  point,  she 
merely  answered  that  they  were  epigrams  a  la 
Grecque,  and,  in  such,  point  was  out  of  place. 
Her  faults  and  her  virtues,  alike  innocent,  did 
not  age  well,  they  attracted  ridicule.  Nor  did 
she  mend  matters  by  her  gallant  defence  of 
the  then  unpopular  Jesuits.  Her  quixotism, 
her  undiscerning  generosity,  her  exactingness 


140       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

and  self-satisfaction,  were  not  the  qualities 
that  appealed  to  her  generation.  c  Luckily 
we  missed  the  Damoiselle  de  Montaigne,  M. 
Courart  and  I,  when  we  went  to  call  upon 
her  a  week  ago/  wrote  the  poet,  Chapelain — 
c  I  pray  God  that  we  may  always  do  this 
when  we  go  to  see  her.'  She  became  a 
kind  of  butt  for  the  merciless  wits  of  Paris, 
and  they  played  practical  jokes  upon  her 
which  may  well,  in  after  years,  have  inspired 
Moliere.  The  versifier,  Racan,  was  one  day 
going  to  call  and  see  her  for  the  first  time, 
and  two  wags,  getting  wind  of  this,  reached  her 
house  before  him,  and,  in  turn,  impersonated 
him  to  her,  so  that  when  the  real  man  arrived 
she,  utterly  bewildered,  ejected  him,  with  cries 
of  '  Au  voleur !  '  The  same  tasteless  jesters 
sent  her  a  letter,  supposed  to  come  from  an 
English  cleric,  to  beg  her  to  write  her  Life 
for  a  collection  of  biographies  of  illustrious 
men  and  women  which  James  i.  had  ordered 
to  be  made.  She  took  six  weeks  over 
her  autobiography,  and  despatched  it  to 
England,  to  the  complete  mystification  of  the 
recipient.  But  James  evidently  kept  it  with 
some  respect,  for  there  is  a  record  of  his 
taking  it  from  his  cabinet  and  showing  it  to 
the  French  ambassador.  Even  such  tricks 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       141 

as  these  are  not,  however,  so  unkind  as  the 
note  that  the  man  of  letters,  Balzac,  sent  to 
Chapelain,  when  she  lay  dying. 

*  Last  time  she  wrote/  he  said,  '  she  warned 
me  it  was  for  the  last  time,  and  that  she  did 
not  think  she  would  have  leisure  to  await  my 
answer  in  this  world.  I  thought  her  a  woman 
of  her  word,  and  imagined  her  already  inhabit- 
ing the  Elysian  fields  ;  for,  as  you  know,  she  has 
had  no  acquaintance  with  Abraham's  bosom, 
and  never  had  much  of  a  passion  for  Paradise.' 

Balzac,  Chapelain,  Racan,  had  shallower 
hearts,  probably,  than  she,  as  well  as  more 
brilliant  tongues.  She  was  lonely,  but  she 
had  consolations  in  her  solitude.  She  corre- 
sponded with  St.  Fran9ois  de  Sales  ;  Justus 
Lipsius  remained  faithful  to  her.  And,  after 
all,  what  mattered  pedants,  poetasters,  satirists, 
whether  her  friends  or  her  foes  ?  She  had 
had  the  love  of  Montaigne,  and  that  was  the 
thought  which  must  have  been  with  her 
when  she  died  in  1645. 

Montaigne's  death  took  place  more  than 
half  a  century  before  hers,  in  the  year  1592. 
His  life  had  known  few  outward  changes. 
Lenor,  his  daughter,  had  married,  and  had, 
let  us  hope,  provided  him  with  the  son-in-law 


142       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

whom  he  desired.  But  he  did  not  live  to  see 
the  birth  of  his  grandchild.  He  died,  as  he 
would  have  wished,  at  Montaigne,  enjoying 
existence  almost  to  the  end. 

'  I  want  men,'  he  said,  c  to  act,  to  prolong 
the  offices  of  life  as  long  as  possible  ;  and  I 
should  like  Death  to  find  me  planting  my 
cabbages,  indifferent  to  his  coming,  and  still 
more  to  my  imperfect  garden.' l 

He  had  mastered  the  art  of  indifference. 
He  was  the  supreme  pessimist  :  he  loved  the 
moment.  Yet  he  sat  loose  to  life — and  he 
practised  his  precepts. 

c  I  am  at  this  hour  in  such  condition,  thanks 
to  God,  that  I  am  ready  to  flit  when  it  pleaseth 
Him,  without  a  single  regret  for  anything, 
unless  it  be  for  life  itself.  ...  I  am  busy 
untying  myself  everywhere  ;  my  farewells  are 
half  made  to  one  and  all,  excepting  to  myself. 
Never  hath  man  prepared  himself  to  leave  the 
world  with  freer,  fuller  heart  ;  never  hath  he 
more  universally  lost  hold  than  I  am  now 
setting  myself  to  do.' 2 

He  had,  indeed,  no  dread  of  death,  but  he 
had  a  great  dread  of  dying.  Not  of  pain,  but 
of  paraphernalia ;  of  the  '  army  of  doctors  and 

1  Essais,  \.  20  :  '  Oue  philosopher  c'est  apprendre  £  mourir.' 

2  Hid. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       143 

weepers,'  who  alone,  he  thought,  made  death 
terrible.  Doctors  he  covered  with  his  serene 
scorn.  c  I  do  not  quarrel  with  them,'  he  says, 
*  but  with  their  art  ;  nor  do  I  blame  them 
much  for  making  their  profit  out  of  our 
foolishness.  .  .  .  Many  other  vocations,  better 
and  worse  than  theirs,  have  no  foundation  or 
support  except  in  public  abuses.  I  summon 
them  when  I  am  ill,  if  they  happen  to  be 
there  at  the  right  moment.  .  .  .  They  may 
choose  whether  my  soup  shall  be  made  of 
hotch-potch  vegetables  or  of  lettuces,  they 
can  order  me  white  wine  or  claret  ;  and  so 
with  all  other  things  that  are  merely  indifferent 
to  my  appetite.' l 

This  was  all  he  found  to  say  for  the  Faculty. 
As  for  the  '  weepers,'  they  made  him  long 
that  he  might  end  in  battle,  far  from  home, 
or  among  simple  village  folk  who  took  death 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

c  It  is,'  he  says, '  the  dreadful  looks,  the  grim 
apparatus  with  which  we  surround  Death,  that 
affright  us.  Quite  a  new  aspect  of  life — the 
cries  of  mothers,  of  wives,  of  children,  visits 
from  dazed,  heart-broken  people;  the  pre- 
sence of  numbers  of  pale  footmen,  their  eyes 
swollen  with  crying  ;  a  dark  room,  lighted 

1  Essais,  ii.  37  :  *  De  la  Ressemblance  des  enfants  aux  p£res. 


144       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

tapers,  our  couch  besieged  by  physicians  and 
preachers — in  short,  every  kind  of  horror  and 
alarm  around  us.  There  we  are — already  dead 
and  buried.  Children  are  afraid  of  their 
friends  even,  when  they  see  them  masked.  So 
are  we.  We  must  unmask  things  as  well  as 
people.  And  whoso  will  take  this  mask  away 
will  find  nothing  underneath  but  the  same 
Death  whom  a  lackey  or  a  simple  housemaid 
passed  by  the  other  day  without  fear.'1 

Montaigne  fulfilled  his  dearest  wish — he 
died  naturally.  '  In  this  last  piece  played 
between  Death  and  you,'  he  had  once  said, 
'  there  is  no  more  pretending  ;  you  must 
speak  French  ;  you  must  show  what  you 
really  have  of  good  and  clean  at  the  bottom 
of  the  pot.' 2 

He  spoke  French,  he  was  Montaigne,  to 
the  close.  The  accounts  of  his  end  differ. 
His  friend,  Pierre  de  Brach,  has  recorded  that 
during  his  last  illness  he  had  no  one  near  him 
to  whom  to  talk  out  his  soul ;  yet  somebody 
there  probably  was,  for  the  historian,  Flori- 
mond  de  Raymond,  mentions  his  power  of 
talking  philosophy  between  bouts  of  suffering. 

1  Essais,  i.  20  :  *  Que  philosopher  c'est  apprendre  a  mourir.' 

2  Essais,  i.  19 :  *  Qu'il  ne  faut  juger  de  notre  heur  qu'apres  la 
mort.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       145 

Pasquier,  again,  describes  him  as  speech- 
less for  the  last  three  days,  and  only  able  to 
talk  with  his  pen.  All  three  pictures  are 
characteristic,  and  all  three  were  probably 
true  at  some  moment  or  another  of  that 
time.  But  there  is  one  record  which  con- 
vinces us  concerning  the  last  moments  of  all. 
He  rose,  it  was  told,  from  his  bed  and  got 
into  his  dressing-gown  ;  he  threw  open  his 
closet  ;  he  bade  enter  a  waiting  crowd  of 
servants  and  legatees,  and  then  and  there  him- 
self gave  them  his  bequests.  He  summoned 
a  few  of  his  neighbours,  country  gentlemen, 
his  comrades  and  companions.  The  priest 
came  ;  he  administered  the  Sacraments  ;  the 
dying  man  was  fully  conscious  ;  at  the  Eleva- 
tion of  the  Host  he  made  a  pious  sign  of 
recognition — and,  as  he  made  it,  his  spirit 
passed  away.  He  departed  as  he  had  lived, 
decorously,  with  due  observance,  uninspired 
by  any  spiritual  vision. 

France  mourned  for  his  death,  and  the  first 
report  we  have  of  the  general  sorrow  is, 
strange  to  say,  in  a  letter  to  an  Englishman. 
Pierre  de  Brach  had  known  Anthony  Bacon 
intimately  at  Bordeaux,  and  it  is  to  this  old 
friend  of  Montaigne's,  in  England,  that  Brach 

K 


146       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

turns  in  the  first  days  of  their  loss — the  more 
so,  as  the  last  letter  that  Montaigne  read 
before  his  illness  was  one  from  Anthony,  who 
had  not  allowed  their  intercourse  to  lapse. 

'  I  am/  wrote  Brach,  '  so  touched  to  the 
quick  by  a  new  sorrow,  by  the  tidings  of  the 
death  of  M.  de  Montaigne,  that  I  no  more 
belong  to  myself.  In  him  I  have  lost  my 
best  friend  ;  France,  the  mind  the  most  whole 
and  the  most  vital  that  ever  she  hath  possessed  ; 
and  the  world  the  true  pattern  and  mirror  of 
pure  philosophy,  to  the  which  he  hath  borne 
witness  as  well  beneath  the  stroke  of  death  as 
in  what  he  wrote  during  his  lifetime  ;  nor,  so 
far  as  I  have  heard,  did  the  great  last  scene 
in  any  way  belie  his  noble  words.  The  last 
letter  that  he  received  was  from  you,  the 
which  I  sent  him.  He  hath  not  answered  it, 
because  he  had  to  answer  Death.  Yet  Death 
could  only  take  what  was  Death's  ;  the  rest, 
and  the  better  part,  his  name  and  his  memory, 
will  only  die  with  the  death  of  all  things,  and 
will  stand  firm.' l 

It  is  not  unfitting  that  Montaigne's  life 
should  end  upon  the  note  of  friendship. 

1  The  French  Renaissance  in  England,  Sidney  Lee.  Letter 
quoted  in  note  on  p.  173,  from  Anthony  Bacon's  MSS.  at 
Lambeth  (British  Museum  Additional  MSS.  4610,  f.  123). 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       147 


MONTAIGNE  died,  but  he  survived.  Never, 
perhaps,  has  great  man  died  less  than  he.  He 
has  left  himself  body  and  soul  behind  him, 
in  the  Essays.  We  have  already  heard  how 
and  why  he  wrote  them.  There  is  no  self- 
portraiture  more  deliberate,  or  more  desultory. 
It  was  a  safety-valve  for  his  experience  of  life 
— an  outlet  for  his  need  of  expression.  '  No 
pleasure,'  he  tells  us,  '  hath  any  savour  for  me 
unless  I  can  communicate  it.  And  if  it  be 
no  more  than  a  gay  thought  the  which  hath 
come  into  my  head,  I  feel  vexed  to  produce  it 
all  alone  and  to  have  no  one  to  whom  to  offer 


it.'1 


'  Had  I  found  some  one  to  talk  to  I  would 
gladly,  had  I  been  able,  have  chosen  the  form 
of  conversation  as  a  means  of  setting  forth  my 
notions.  I  needed  what  I  once  used  to  have, 
a  certain  kind  of  intercourse  which  attracted, 
which  sustained,  which  uplifted  me.  For  to 

1  Essais,  iii.  9  :  *  De  la  Vanitd* 


148       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

hold  negotiations  with  the  wind,  as  others  do, 
I  could  not  do  it.  ...  I,  the  enemy  of  all 
falsification,  I  should  have  been  more  careful, 
more  sure-footed,  could  I  but  have  addressed 
myself  to  a  staunch  friend,  than  I  am  when  I 
have  to  direct  my  words  to  a  many-headed 
public/1 

And  yet,  besides  this  casual  expansiveness, 
he  had,  as  we  know,  a  set  purpose  in  writing  his 
Essays,  a  serious  purpose,  however  gaily  he 
dressed  it.  He  desired  to  '  mould  life '  by 
living — on  paper,  as  in  real  existence  ;  and 
since  he  could  probe  no  life  so  truly  as  his 
own,  he  exposed  it  without  scruple  and  with- 
out vanity.  For  his  self-revelation  is  a  state- 
ment— cheerful,  cold,  sane,  and  free  from  any 
puling  element,  any  luxury  of  self-pity  or 
self-interest.  It  is  difficult  to  guess  how  far 
he  gauged  his  own  dimensions.  'At  one 
moment  I  place  them  high,  at  another  low,'  2 
he  says  of  the  Essays.  He  would  have  us 
believe  in  their  haphazardness.  But  the  loose- 
ness of  his  form  implied  no  vagueness  of 
thought  ;  it  concealed,  indeed,  a  more  de- 
liberate design  than  he  wished  the  random 
reader  to  suspect.  'The  subjects,'  he  writes, 

1  Essais,  i.  40  :  '  Consideration  sur  Ciceron.' 

2  Esstis,  iii.  8  :  '  De  1'Art  de  conferer.' 


\ 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       149 

'  are  all  linked  the  one  to  the  other/  l  And 
if  he  also  writes  that  he  '  found  it  strange ' 
that  '  persons  of  intellect  should  trouble  their 
heads '  to  provide  him  with  a  system,  that 
was  only  because  he  wanted  to  hit  the 
Schoolmen,  to  teach  them  that  formality 
is  not  one  with  form,  that  order  can  be 
maintained  without  headings,  that  ease  is 
not  ignorance,  but  mastery  ;  because,  of 
malice  prepense^  he  desired  to  lead  all  pedants 
astray. 

His  desultoriness  was  also  a  matter  of  style, 
a  part  of  his  conception  of  autobiography. 
And  there  is  no  autobiographer  in  the  world 
who  would  not  profit  by  reading  Montaigne. 
The  Essays  are  a  kind  of  epitome  of  the  art  of 
self-revelation,  and  an  art,  as  he  gives  it  us,  so 
modern  that  we  can  hardly  believe  he  lived  in 
his  century.  The  classical  tradition  of  adula- 
tion in  Renaissance,  Greek,  and  Latin,  the 
tedium  of  heroics  and  of  oraisons  furtibres 
revolted  him.  He  broke  with  all  such  ante- 
cedents, and  returned  to  Nature.  Before  all 
things,  he  demanded  truth — unvarnished,  but 
neither  sour-faced  nor  puritanic.  c  I  have  not 
the  slightest  wish  to  be  better  loved  and 
respected  when  I  am  dead  than  in  my  life- 

1  Essais,  \\\.  5  :  '  Sur  des  vers  dc  Virgile.' 


150       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

time/ l  he  said.  '  I  am  hungry  to  make 
myself  known.  .  .  .  All  the  world  recogniseth 
me  in  my  book  and  my  book  in  me.' 2 

'  I  am  not  setting  up  a  statue  to  stand  in 
the  chief  square  of  a  town,  or  in  a  church,  or 
in  any  public  place.  ...  It  is  rather  for  the 
corner  of  a  library  and  the  amusement  of  a 
neighbour,  a  relation,  a  friend,  who  will  enjoy 
recovering  my  acquaintance,  frequenting  me 
once  more  in  this  my  image.  Other  men 
have  taken  courage  to  talk  about  themselves, 
for  that  they  found  the  theme  a  worthy  and  a 
rich  one.  I  have  chosen  it  contrariwise — for 
that  I  have  found  it  thin  and  sterile  to  such  a 
degree  that  no  one  can  suspect  me  of  ostenta- 
tion. ...  I  do  not,  indeed,  find  so  much 
good  in  myself  that  I  cannot  tell  it  without 
blushing/  3 

'  If  I  speak  of  myself  diversely,  it  is  because 
I  think  of  myself  diversely.  By  some  trick, 
in  some  fashion,  every  contradiction  meeteth  in 
me.  I  am  shamefaced  and  insolent  ;  chaste 
and  luxurious  ;  a  prater  and  taciturn  ;  laborious 
and  delicate  ;  clever  and  stupid  ;  peevish  and 
good-humoured  ;  a  liar  and  a  truth-teller ; 

1  Essaist  ii.  37  :  'De  la  Ressemblance  des  enfants  aux  p£res.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  5  :  *  Sur  des  vers  de  Virgile.' 
8  Essais,  ii.  1 8  :  l  Du  Dementir.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       151 

learned  and  ignorant  .  .  .  miserly  and 
extravagant.' l  c  I  would  gladly  come  back 
from  the  other  world  to  give  the  lie  to  him 
who  tried  to  make  me  other  than  I  was, 
although  he  were  trying  to  do  me  honour.  I 
feel  that  even  living  men  are  spoken  of  as 
different  from  what  they  are,  and  if  I  had  not, 
with  all  my  force,  kept  hold  of  the  friend 
whom  I  have  lost,  I  should  have  had  his  true 
countenance  split  up  into  a  thousand  other 
countenances.'  2 

'  Whatever  my  ineptitudes,  I  have  no  more 
mind  to  hide  them  than  I  should  have  to  hide 
a  portrait  of  myself  with  bald  head  and  hair 
turning  grey — a  portrait  in  which  the  painter 
had  drawn  a  face  not  perfect,  but  mine  own. 
For  the  humours  and  opinions  I  set  down 
here  belong  to  me.  I  give  them  because  I 
believe  them,  not  because  they  are  what  ought 
to  be  believed.  I  have  no  aim  but  to  discover 
myself — and  to-morrow  myself  will  peradven- 
ture  be  another,  if  some  new  apprenticeship 
chance  to  change  me.  I  bear  no  authority 
that  would  make  men  believe  me,  nor  do  I 
desire  it :  I  feel  myself  too  ill-taught  to  teach 
others.' 3 

1  Essais,  ii.  i  :  'De  PInconstance  de  nos  actions.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  9  :  *  De  la  VaniteV 

8  Essais,  i  26  :  « De  PInstitution  des  Enfants.' 


152       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

c  And  as  for  the  public,  the  only  relation  I 
hold  with  it  herein  is  that  I  borrow  from  it 
the  tools  it  useth  for  writing.  ...  In  com- 
pensation, it  may  be  that  I  shall  keep  some 
pat  of  butter  from  melting  in  the  market ' l — 
(because  it  might  be  wrapped  in  a  fragment 
of  his  Essays) . 

c  In  painting  myself  for  others,  I  have  painted 
myself  for  myself  in  colours  more  decided 
than  the  real  ones.'2  ...  'As  Michel  de 
Montaigne,  not  as  a  grammarian,  or  a  poet, 
or  a  lawyer.  And  if  the  world  should  complain 
that  I  talk  too  much  of  myself,  I  complain 
that  it  does  not  even  know  how  to  talk  of 
itself.' 3 

'  It  is  custom  which  hath  made  it  criminal 
to  speak  of  oneself  and  hath  obstinately 
forbidden  it,  hating  the  sense  of  brag,  the 
which  seemeth  ever  to  attach  to  such  as 
furnish  their  own  testimonials.  Instead  of 
blowing  the  child's  nose  as  you  ought,  you 
take  away  its  nostrils.  I  think  that  there  is 
more  harm  than  good  in  this  remedy.  ...  If 
I  say  what  I  really  believe,  I  hold  that  custom 
is  wrong  to  condemn  wine  because  some  men 

1  Essais,  ii.  18:  '  Du  Dementir.' 

2  Ibid. 

8  Essais,  ill.  2  :  '  Du  Repentir.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       153 

get  drunk  upon  it  ;  it  is  only  good  things 
which  can  be  abused.' l 

Candour  even  to  crudity,  happy  confession 
without  repentance  or  the  smallest  need  of 
absolution,  such  is  Montaigne's  notion  of 
autobiography.  The  one  thing  he  exacted 
from  himself  was  never  to  make  copy  out  of 
himself ;  was  to  be  a  man  first,  a  writer  after- 
wards— a  man  as  complete  as  might  be  on  all 
sides.  This  was  a  capital  clause  of  his  creed. 

*  Whatever  I  be,'  he  says,  '  I  wish  to  be  that 
thing  elsewhere  than  on  paper.  I  have  used 
my  art  and  my  industry  that  I  might  make 
myself  felt  ;  my  studies  that  I  might  learn  to 
do,  not  to  write.  Every  effort  of  mine  has  only 
been  directed  to  form  my  life.  That  is  my  trade 
and  my  work.  I  am  less  a  maker  of  books 
than  of  anything.  I  have  always  desired  just 
enough  of  a  fortune  to  satisfy  real  and  pressing 
conveniences,  not  to  turn  such  a  competence 
into  a  magazine  and  store  for  my  heirs.'  2 

Style  was  essential  to  him  —  the  primal 
equipment  of  a  writer.  By  culling  here  and 
there  in  the  Essays  we  could  easily  collect  a 
perfect  compendium  for  authors,  an  anthology 
for  critics.  He  has  said  most  things  that  can 

1  Essais,  ii.  6:  'De  1'Exercitation.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  37  :  '  De  la  Ressemblance  des  enfants  aux  p£res.' 


154       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

be  said  on  style.  And  style,  as  he  conceived 
it,  could  not  exist  without  two  qualities — 
clearness  and  simplicity.  c  It  was,'  he  wrote, 
c  with  good  reason  that  childhood  and  sim- 
plicity were  so  much  commended  by  Truth 
itself ' ; l  and  the  words,  though  they  bore  no 
literary  import,  might  be  taken  as  a  definition 
of  Montaigne's  literary  ideal. 

'  I  hear  people  excuse  themselves,'  he  says 
elsewhere,  '  for  not  being  able  to  express  them- 
selves ;  they  make  a  show  of  having  their 
heads  full  of  a  great  many  fine  things,  but  for 
lack  of  eloquence,  say  they,  they  cannot  bring 
them  out.  That  is  humbug.  Do  you  know 
what  in  my  opinion  all  these  fine  things  are  ? 
They  are  shadows  which  come  from  a  few 
shapeless  conceptions,  and  since  they  can 
neither  disentangle  nor  clear  them  up  inside 
themselves,  they  cannot  produce  them  outside : 
they  do  not  yet  understand  themselves.  .  .  . 
For  my  part,  I  hold  .  .  .  that  whoso  hath 
in  his  mind  a  vital  and  lucid  thought,  will 
produce  it.'  2 

And  he  will  produce  it  vitally  and  lucidly. 
Montaigne  tells  him  how  to  do  so. 

c  The  kind  of  speech  that  I  like,'  he  writes, 

1  Lettres  de  Montaigne :  A  M.  de  Mesmes. 

2  Essais,  i.  26:  '  De  PInstitution  des  Enfants.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       155 

'  is  a  simple,  naif  speech,  the  same  upon  paper 
as  upon  the  lips — a  succulent,  nervous  speech, 
short  and  compressed,  not  so  much  combed  and 
curled  and  coddled  as  vehement  and  brusque.' 

'  Force  and  nerves  cannot  be  borrowed  ; 
you  can  only  borrow  cloaks  and  furbelows.' l 

c  Those  who  have  a  thin  body,  stuff  it  out 
with  padding  ;  those  who  have  thin  subject- 
matter  swell  it  out  with  words.'2 

Words — Montaigne's  idols  and  his  bugbears, 
according  to  their  behaviour.  They  are,  he 
thinks,  the  great  danger  of  the  second-rate  ; 
they  help  him  to  swim  on  in  mere  cleverness. 
He  greatly  disliked  too  much  cleverness — the 
slightest  suspicion  of  a  superior  manner  or 
conscious  brilliance.  What  was  not  spontane- 
ous seemed  to  him  dull.  c  I  find,'  he  says, 
c  no  great  difference  between  being  unable  to 
say  things  well  and  being  able  only  to  say 
them  well.' 3  What  was  said  was  unimportant 
so  long  as  it  was  aptly  and  sincerely  said.  '  A 
man  who  telleth  truth  can  be  as  great  a  fool 
as  he  who  telleth  lies — for  we  are  now  upon 
the  manner,  not  the  matter  of  our  utterance.'4 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  *  De  PInstitution  dcs  Enfants.' 

2  Ibid. 

3  Essais,  i.  40  :  '  Consideration  sur  Ciceron.' 

4  Essais,  iii.  8  :  *  De  1'Art  de  conferer.' 


156       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

And  if  matter  be  there,  we  need  not  trouble — 
it  will  mould  the  manner  from  within. 

'  One  must  not  always  say  everything,  for 
that  would  be  folly  ;  but  what  one  doth  say 
must  be  just  what  one  thinketh  ;  otherwise  it 
turneth  into  evil.' l 

The  greatest  evil  of  all,  in  Montaigne's  eyes, 
was  a  departure  from  the  obvious — affectation, 
pedantry,  pursuit  of  novelty. 

'Just  as  in  our  clothes  it  is  a  vanity  to  try 
to  attract  attention  by  some  particular  and 
unusual  fashion,  so  is  it  in  the  matter  of  lan- 
guage. The  search  for  new-fangled  phrases 
and  little-known  words  cometh  from  a  pe- 
dantic, puerile  ambition.  May  I  only  use 
such  as  are  in  use  in  the  Ha//es  of  Paris  !  ' 2 

'  No  man  is  exempt  from  the  utterance  of 
insipidities.  The  misfortune  is  when  he 
uttereth  them  in  an  out-of-the-way  fashion.' 3 

c  A  great  many  of  our  French  writers  of 
to-day  .  .  .  are  bold  and  contemptuous  enough 
not  to  follow  the  high-road  ;  but  their  lack  of 
invention  and  discretion  ruineth  them.  You 
can  find  nothing  in  them  but  a  miserable 
assumption  of  strangeness,  of  cold  and  absurd 

1  Essats,  ii.  17  :  *  De  la  Pre'somption.' 

2  Essais,  i.  26  :  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 
8  Essais,  iii.  I  :  *  De  1'Utile  et  de  1'HonnSte. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN        157 

disguises,  the  which,  instead  of  lifting  the 
subject,  drag  it  down.  So  long  as  they 
are  strutting  about  pranked  out  in  novelty, 
they  do  not  care  a  jot  for  efficacy  ;  and  for 
the  sake  of  getting  hold  of  a  new  word,  they 
leave  the  ordinary  one,  the  which  is  often 
stronger  and  more  nervous.' l 

For  such  newsmongers — for  the  throng  of 
professional  authors  and  poetasters  —  for  all 
men  who  wrote  for  writing's  sake  and  not 
from  the  needs  of  a  rich  vitality,  he  has  un- 
bounded contempt.  His  Jeremiads  seem  to 
fit  our  own  day  even  better  than  his. 

'  Some  law  should  be  passed/  he  says,  'against 
inept  and  useless  writers,  like  the  laws  against 
vagrants  and  ne'er-do-weels.  In  this  fashion,  the 
popular  vote  would  banish  me  and  a  hundred 
others.  This  is  no  joke.  Scribbling  seemeth, 
indeed,  to  be  the  symptom  of  an  unstrung 
generation.  When  have  we  written  so  much 
as  since  all  our  civil  agitations  ?  When  did 
the  Romans  write  so  much  as  at  the  time 
of  their  ruin  ?  When  minds  become  more 
pointed  and  subtle,  it  doth  not  mean  that  they 
grow  more  wise.'  * 

It   was   Montaigne's  distaste  for  subtleties, 

1  Essais,  in.  5  :  *  Sur  des  vers  de  Virgile.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  9  :  '  De  la  Vanite.' 


158       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

and  their  bad  effect,  as  he  thought,  upon 
man's  mind,  that  made  him  lay  such  strong 
stress  upon  frankness.  An  over-strong  stress 
sometimes,  almost  amounting  to  fanaticism, 
and  driving  frankness  over  the  bounds  of 
decency.  Yet  his  frankness  had  a  serious 
purpose — it  was  not  devoid  of  its  own 
austerities. 

c  I  have,'  he  wrote,  '  commanded  myself  to 
say  all  that  I  dare  to  do.  I  am  displeased  even 
with  such  thoughts  as  are  unpublishable.  The 
worst  of  my  deeds  and  moral  states  do  not 
seem  to  me  as  ugly  as  the  ugliness  and 
cowardice  of  not  being  able  to  acknowledge 
them.  He  who  would  force  himself  to  say 
everything  would  force  himself  to  do  none  of 
the  things  one  is  now  constrained  to  do.  God 
grant  that  this  excess  of  licence  on  my  part 
may  draw  the  men  of  our  time  towards  liberty, 
the  which  is  far  above  those  mincing,  cowardly 
virtues  born  of  our  imperfections.' ] 

There  is  a  goodness  greater  than  virtue, 
stronger  and  more  immutable  than  the  shifting 
moralities  of  men.  That  it  existed  was  not 
Montaigne's  discovery — it  was  the  discovery 
of  the  human  race.  It  has  preserved  that  race, 
it  has  led  it,  through  all  its  blind  errors  of 

1  Ess  ah,  iii.  5 :  'Sur  des  Ten  dc  Virgilc.' 


MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN       159 

faith  and  reason — its  bigotries,  its  heresies,  its 
fanaticisms — through  the  stormy  clash  of  in- 
stinct and  idea — through  its  dark  gropings  after 
truth,  towards  the  light.  This  fundamental 
goodness  Montaigne  recognised,  although  he 
seldom  said  so  ;  he  believed  in  it,  although 
his  belief  most  often  took  the  form  of  a  pro- 
test against  current  virtues  and  accepted  moral 
standards.  He  believed  in  it  more  than  he 
knew — too  much,  perhaps,  to  give  it  a  name. 

The  scope  of  Montaigne's  Essays,  indeed, 
far  transcended  his  ken.  He  once  called  them 
'  a  heap  of  flowers  from  abroad,  to  which  I 
have  added  nothing  of  mine  own  but  the 
thread  which  bindeth  them '  ;  but  the  flowers 
have  faded,  while  the  thread  remains.  His 
book  is  more  his  than  most  men's  books  are 
theirs,  and  to  it  might  well  be  applied  his 
own  words  concerning  quotations  : 

'  I  do  not  only  regard  them  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  use  to  which  I  put  them. 
Often,  outside  the  limits  of  my  subject,  they 
bear  in  them  the  seed  of  some  richer  and  more 
daring  matter  ;  they  strike  a  subtler  undernote 
— both  for  me  who  had  no  wish  to  express  so 
many  things,  and  for  those  who  may  chance 
upon  my  tune.' l 

1  Esstis,  i,  40 :  '  Consideration  sur  Cic^ron.* 


160       MONTAIGNE  THE  MAN 

Who  chances  on  that  tune  is  forced  to 
listen,  whether  he  will  or  no.  And  it  is  not 
one  to  please  the  majority.  We  can  but  lend 
Montaigne  a  close  attention,  and  turn  to  the 
Essays  themselves. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  PHILOSOPHER 


MICHEL  SEIGNEUR  DE-MONTAGNE 


From  an  anonymous  portrait  at  Bordeaux,  old  but  not  contemporary,  although  very 
likely  based  upon  an  older  picture. 


MONTAIGNE  THE  PHILOSOPHER 

MONTAIGNE  is  the  typical  Frenchman — an 
epitome  of  his  country.  His  pellucid  matter- 
of-factness — his  crystal  conceptions — his  scepti- 
cism born  of  irony  and  modesty — his  sunny 
materialism — his  Titanic  common-sense,  brave, 
unwinking,  confident — his  knowledge  of  the 
road — his  indifference  to  the  heavens,  except- 
ing as  they  rained  or  shone,  caused  him  comfort 
or  discomfort — his  forcible,  stinging  insight, 
which,  when  condensed,  became  epigram — his 
stoical  humour — his  austere  good-taste — his 
width  of  view  for  every  day — his  limited  out- 
look on  futurity — his  acknowledgment  of  the 
appetites  as  legitimate  sons  of  the  house,  to  be 
welcomed,  even  encouraged,  as  the  means  of 
cheering  life — his  respect  for  facts  before 
imaginative  truth — all  these  gifts  and  defects 
are  the  heritage  of  France — of  La  Roche- 
foucauld, of  Voltaire,  of  Anatole  France,  as 
well  as  of  Michel  de  Montaigne.  From  all 
these  points  of  view  he  stands  as  the  monu- 
mental Frenchman — the  monumental  critic. 

163 


1 64  MONTAIGNE 

For  criticism  is  the  genius  of  France,  and 
Montaigne  made  criticism  creative.  He  is  the 
first  representative  of  a  splendid  dynasty  ;  just  as 
Shakespeare  is  perennially  the  type  of  English 
genius — of  creative  imagination.  Rabelais, 
Montaigne's  great  predecessor,  was  not  a 
critic  but  an  innovator.  He  gave  birth  to  new 
ideas,  instead  of,  like  Montaigne,  giving  a  new 
colour  to  thought.  Rabelais,  the  giant,  as  he 
rose  rebellious  from  Chaos,  scattered  mud 
from  the  road  as  he  strode  forward,  but  there 
was  that  within  him  which  could  not  be 
besmirched — there  was  the  poet.  Montaigne 
had  no  touch  of  the  poet  in  his  composition — 
his  means  were  always  adequate  to  his  end. 
And  here  we  come  to  his  strange  limitation. 
Montaigne  was  ignorant  of  the  power  of  an 
idea,  ignorant  of  its  very  existence.  To  live 
for  an  idea  was  a  possibility  outside  his 
consciousness.  To  die  for  an  idea  seemed  to 
him  a  mere  offence  against  reason,  a  madness, 
an  act  of  nervous  derangement.  '  Excess  of 
virtue,'  he  tells  us,  appeared  in  his  eyes  worse 
than  <  excess  of  vice'  ;  an  ideal,  a  spendthrift 
frivolity  ;  an  aspiration,  a  sin  of  ignorant 
presumption  and  self-indulgence.  And  in 
this,  too,  he  was  not  least  a  Frenchman. 
The  statement  sounds  like  a  paradox  in  a 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  165 

country  where  the  Terror  itself  was  the  debauch 
of  an  idea,  and  where  men,  revolutionists  and 
sectarians,  have  so  often  marched  to  ruin  for 
the  sake  of  a  Cause.  But  if  we  look  closer, 
we  shall  see  that  their  fall  has  generally  come 
from  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  an  idea,  not 
from  devotion  to  it.  They  do  not  know  that 
an  idea  is  so  big  that  men  cannot  walk  to  the 
end  of  it ;  they  do  not  know  that  its  horizon 
must  be  mist.  From  Calvin  and  Pascal  to 
Rousseau,  they  have  treated  an  idea  as  finite  ; 
they  have  believed  that  by  the  use  of  logic 
they  can  come  out  on  the  other  side.  And 
Montaigne  was  but  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  this 
tendency.  He  was  devoid  of  spiritual  wish 
or  outlook  ;  he  knew  everything  about 
Monday  and  nothing  at  all  about  Sunday. 

But  here,  again,  he  was  not  consistent. 
There  was  one  point  at  which  he  became  a 
poet,  an  idealist.  It  was  friendship.  In 
friendship,  Montaigne  was  higher  than  his 
stature.  His  love  for  La  Boetie  lifted  him  to 
another  plane — it  taught  him  hero-worship. 
Montaigne,  in  whose  creed  self-preservation 
was  almost  the  first  article,  who,  although  he 
was  mayor  of  Bordeaux,  would  not  enter  the 
plague-stricken  city,  refused  to  leave  his 
friend's  bedside,  in  spite  of  a  warning  that  the 


1 66  MONTAIGNE 

illness  was  contagious.  Montaigne,  to  whom 
excessive  feeling  was  as  a  sin,  was  so  dominated 
by  sorrow  that  twenty  years  after  La  Boetie's 
death,  as  he  sat  one  day  alone  at  the  Baths  of 
Lucca,  the  sense  of  his  loss  suddenly  swept 
over  him  with  the  freshness  of  a  grief  of 
yesterday.  It  haunts  his  Essays ;  it  haunted 
him.  One  feels  there  were  few  days  when  he 
did  not  wake  and  say  with  the  same  shock  of 
surprise,  '  La  Boetie  is  dead  ! '  No  one  has 
written  as  nobly  as  he  has  done  about  friend- 
ship— not  even  Shakespeare  ;  for  La  Boetie  had 
no  attraction  of  good  looks,  and  Montaigne 
dwells  only  on  his  inner  beauty. 

4  In  true  friendship,  in  the  which  I  am  an 
expert,  I  give  myself  to  my  friend  even  more 
than  I  draw  him  unto  me.  Not  only  had  I 
liefer  do  him  good  than  that  he  should  do  it 
unto  me  ;  but,  furthermore,  that  he  should  do 
good  to  himself  rather  than  to  me.  In  past 
days  I  was  wont  to  gather  gain  and  use  from 
our  separation  ;  we  fulfilled  the  better  the 
measure  of  life,  we  widened  its  borders,  when 
we  were  parted  one  from  the  other  ;  he  lived, 
he  enjoyed,  he  saw  for  me,  and  I  for  him,  as 
fully  as  if  he  had  been  there  ;  one  part  of  us 
remained  idle  when  we  were  together — we 
were  fused  the  one  in  the  other.  Division  in 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  167 

space  rendered  more  rich  the  conjunction  of 
our  wills.  That  insatiate  hunger  for  bodily 
presence  doth,  in  truth,  somewhat  proclaim  a 
weakness  in  the  true  enjoyment  of  souls.' l 

Or  again  :  c  In  this  friendship  whereof  I 
speak,  our  souls  commingle  and  confound 
themselves  the  one  with  the  other  in  a  fusion 
so  entire  that  they  lose  themselves  each  in 
each,  and  can  no  longer  find  the  seam  which 
joined  them.  ...  In  this  noble  commerce 
those  services  and  kindnesses  which  feed  other 
friendships  are  not  worthy  to  be  reckoned.  .  .  . 
For  all,  indeed,  is  common  between  them  .  .  . 
wills,  thoughts,  judgments,  possessions  .  .  . 
life  and  honour.  ...  If  ...  one  could  give 
to  the  other,  it  would  be  he  who  received  the 
benefaction  who  would  do  good  to  his  com- 
panion.2 .  .  .  And  our  spirits,  his  and  mine, 
were  so  closely  yoked  together,  considering 
one  another  with  an  ardent  affection  .  .  . 
which  so  lay  bare  the  very  entrails  of  being, 
that  not  only  did  I  know  his  soul  as  I  knew 
mine,  but  I  would  certainly  have  trusted 
myself  more  willingly  to  his  hands  than  to 


mine  own.' 3 


1  Essafs,  iii.  9  :  *  DC  la  Vanite.' 

2  Essais,  i.  28:  *  De  PAmitte.' 
8  Ibid. 


1 68  MONTAIGNE 

How  warm  this  rings,  how  it  glows,  by 
the  side  of  Bacon's  praise  of  friendship  as  an 
excellent  intellectual  investment — an  advan- 
tageous partnership  by  which,  if  a  man  be 
careful,  he  may  make  mental  capital ! 

Montaigne's  sorrow  struck  him  when  he 
was  over  thirty,  at  the  sharpest  moment  of 
experience,  when  he  was  too  old  to  have  life 
still  before  him,  and  young  enough  to  feel 
the  mortal  pain  of  a  gun-shot  that  left  him 
maimed  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

His  friend's  death  coloured  his  existence 
more  than  any  event  in  it ;  it  recurs  oftener 
than  any  in  his  pages.  This  it  was,  no 
doubt,  that  accentuated  another  almost  poetic 
tendency  in  him.  He  was  haunted  by  death, 
and  had  been  from  his  youth  onwards.  The 
omnipresence  of  the  image  of  mortality  was 
common  enough  in  his  day.  Death  and 
danger  were  always  before  men's  eyes ;  they 
lived  close  to  war  and  pestilence  ;  close,  too, 
to  the  Latin  classics  and  their  reflections 
upon  the  transitoriness  of  life.  But  Mon- 
taigne's attitude  towards  death  was  not  theirs 
—  it  was  more  intense.  His  thought  was 
pitched  in  a  higher  key  than  was  usual  with 
him.  As  a  young  man,  so  he  tells  us,  when 
he  was  returning  from  wild  midnight  revels, 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  169 

from  feasting  and  wit  and  all  enchantments, 
the  sense  of  finality  would  suddenly  sweep 
over  him  without  warning,  would  pursue  him 
through  the  dark  streets,  and  blot  out  thought, 
and  crush  the  pleasure  to  lose  which  he 
regarded  as  moral  suicide. 

The  six  years  of  union  were  unclouded,  and, 
when  they  were  over,  the  task  of  editing  his 
friend's  writings  was  his  one  consolation. 
Montaigne's  love  even  got  the  better  of  his 
strong  disbelief  in  immortality.  c  I  have  tried,' 
he  said,  '  with  these  fragments  to  ...  bring 
him  back  to  life.  I  think  that  in  some  fashion 
he  feeleth  this,  and  that  these  good  offices  of 
mine  touch  him  and  rejoice  his  spirit.  But, 
in  truth,  he  still  lodgeth  within  me  so  living 
and  so  whole  that  I  can  neither  believe  the 
earth  to  lie  heavy  upon  him,  nor  that  he 
can  be  far  removed  from  our  companion- 
ship.'1 

These  patches  of  warmer,  finer  feeling,  even 
while  they  ennoble  him,  seem  unnatural.  We 
ask  ourselves  why  they  are  there  to  perturb 
his  equanimity.  Does  the  answer,  or  part  of 
it,  lie  in  the  mixed  strain  of  his  blood  ?  For 
Montaigne  was  a  Gascon  and  Montaigne  was 
a  Jew,  and  the  fusion  of  Jew  and  Frenchman 

1  Lettres  de  Montaigne-.  A  M.  de  Mesmes. 


170  MONTAIGNE 

suggests  a  conflict  of  irreconcilable  elements. 
Perhaps  the  thoughts  and  qualities  that  seem 
incongruous  in  him,  the  baffling  contradic- 
tions which  run  like  multi-coloured  threads 
through  his  nature,  may  be,  to  some  degree, 
explained  by  the  strange  mixture.  The 
elements  are  such  that  the  threads  are  bound 
to  remain  separate  ;  to  run  alongside  of  each 
other  without  meeting. 

Montaigne's  Jewish  descent,  indeed,  tells  in 
more  ways  than  one,  in  the  lesser  as  well  as 
the  greater.  To  Frenchmen,  their  patriotism 
is  a  sine  qua  non^  the  love  of  their  country  an 
essential  force.  But  Montaigne,  for  all  his 
Gallic-ness,  was  a  deliberate  cosmopolitan. 
'  It  is  not,'  he  writes,  '  for  that  Socrates  hath 
said  it,  but  rather  that  it  is  mine  own  humour 
— peradventure  even  to  some  excess — that  I 
consider  all  men  my  compatriots ;  and  I 
embrace  a  Pole  as  gladly  as  I  would  a  French- 
man, subordinating  the  natural  bond  to  that 
which  is  common  and  universal.  Nature  sent 
us  free  into  the  world  and  unshackled  ;  it  is 
we  who  imprison  ourselves  in  narrow  straits.' 1 

Nor  is  Montaigne's  philosophy  devoid  of 
the  Jewish  element.  We  need  stretch  no 
point  to  detect  it.  There  is  often  a  kind  of 

1  Essais,  \i\.  9  :  '  De  la  Vanitc.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  171 

intensity  in  his  power  of  balance  which  con- 
trasts with  his  general  coolness  and  with  the 
temperament  of  his  day.  And  now  and  then, 
though  rarely,  his  scepticism  is  touched  with 
emotion — an  emotion  which,  again,  is  foreign 
to  him  ;  his  prose  assumes  the  style  of  an 
opportunist  prophet,  if  such  there  be.  As 
here,  for  instance  : 

c  For  this  world  is  a  very  holy  temple  into 
the  which  man  is  ushered,  there  to  look  upon 
divers  images,  carven  by  no  mortal  hand,  but 
such  as  the  Divine  Thought  hath  fashioned 
to  be  apprehended  of  the  senses  :  the  sun,  the 
stars,  the  waters,  and  the  earth,  the  which  are 
symbols  of  the  invisible  truth  that  is  to  be 
apprehended  by  the  intelligence  alone.' l 

Such  a  passage  comes  almost  like  a  shock 
in  the  midst  of  Montaigne's  fat  pasture-lands 
of  utilitarianism. 

c  Transcendent  humours,'  he  says  elsewhere 
(and  he  says  it  not  once  but  often),  'affright 
me  like  unto  high  and  inaccessible  places  ; 
and  I  find  nothing  hard  to  swallow  in  the  life 
of  Socrates  except  his  ecstasies,  and  what  he 
telleth  us  concerning  his  "  Daimon."  .  .  .  To 
my  mind,  the  finest  lives  are  those  which  are 
cut  upon  the  common  human  pattern,  orderly, 

1  Essats,  ii.  12:  *  Apologie  de  Raimond  Scbond.' 


172  MONTAIGNE 

without  miracle  or  extravagancy.1  All  actions 
that  are  in  the  least  extraordinary  are  subject 
to  wrong  interpretation,  for  that  our  will 
reacheth  no  more  nearly  what  is  above  it  than 
what  is  below  it.'2 

Yet  another  day,  the  apostle  of  a  complete 
content  with  incompleteness  can  write — like 
Shakespeare  or  Browning — 

'The  world  is  but  one  perennial  motion; 
all  things  in  it  move  unceasingly,  the  earth, 
the  boulders  of  the  Caucasus,  the  pyramids  of 
Egypt — each  with  the  universal  motion  no 
less  than  with  its  own  ;  constancy  itself  is  no 
other  than  a  more  languid  motion.  .  .  .  Could 
my  soul  but  take  root,  I  should  no  longer 
make  experiment,  I  should  resolve  ;  but  my 
soul  is  bound  apprentice,  and  stands  on  trial 
for  evermore.' 3 

What  tide  in  his  breast  compelled  Mon- 
taigne to  make  a  statement  so  far  outside  him- 
self ?  His  normal  point  of  view  is  strangely 
different. 

c  He  who  walketh  in  the  crowd  must  swerve 
aside  and  draw  in  his  elbows,  must  retreat  or 
advance,  must  even  leave  the  straight  road, 

1  Essais,  iii.  13  :  '  De  PExperience.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  2  :  '  De  1'Ivrognerie.' 

3  Essais,  iii.  2  :  c  Du  Repentir.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  173 

according  to  what  he  meeteth  upon  his 
way.  .  .  .' ] 

'  For  tender  stomachs  there  is  need  of  arti- 
ficial ordinances  and  constraint ;  good  stomachs 
simply  make  use  of  the  ordinances  prescribed 
by  natural  appetites.' 2  This  is  his  creed,  con- 
stantly reiterated  under  many  shapes.  We  have 
but  to  open  the  Essays  at  random — we  shall 
hardly  fail  to  light  upon  some  such  passage. 

Montaigne's  contribution  to  the  forces  of 
life,  his  unique  legacy  to  the  world,  is  not 
fresh  thought,  it  is  fresh  form.  It  is  difficult 
to  separate  the  two,  or  to  overestimate  the 
value  of  a  new  mode  of  expression  that  exists 
not  for  an  age,  but  for  all  time.  A  gift  such 
as  this  needs  just  a  Montaigne — a  creative 
critic,  not  a  poet ;  and  so  Montaigne  invented 
the  Essay. 

Many  of  his  thoughts  were  there  before  him. 
Rabelais  had  stood  up  as  the  champion  of 
'  Dame  Nature '  against  asceticism,  had  shifted 
the  boundary-lines  of  morality,  had  laughed 
pedantry  to  scorn  with  his  huge  laughter. 
Erasmus  and  Reuchlin  had  broken  blades  for 
tolerance  ;  Dolet  had  died  for  free-thought  ; 
the  French  mystics,  with  the  saints  and  the 

1  Essais,  iii.  9  :  '  De  la  Vanite,' 

2  Ibid, 


174  MONTAIGNE 

Book  of  Ecclesiastes  at  their  back,  had  belittled 
human  knowledge  ;  Ronsard  had  trumpeted 
Hedonism,  and,  together  with  many  Renais- 
sance cardinals,  submitted  his  words  to 
Mother  Church,  and  reinstated  Paganism  in 
his  actions  ;  while,  as  a  body,  the  Humanists 
made  war  upon  the  stupid,  and  started  en- 
lightened systems  of  education.  The  bullion 
was  ready  on  the  quay,  but  Montaigne  found 
the  means  of  transit.  Who  knows  how  long 
the  gold  might  not  have  lain  there  ?  He 
made  it  into  current  coin — not  only,  as  it 
hitherto  had  been,  for  the  intellectual,  but 
also  for  the  common  and  the  ignorant.  He 
stood  upon  no  height,  but  came  down  in 
working  clothes  into  the  market-place,  and 
loitered,  as  it  were,  among  his  audience. 
When,  in  speaking  of  the  education  of  chil- 
dren, he  wrote  that  every  schoolroom  should  be 
strewn  with  flowers,  he  said  what  all  parents 
could  understand,  and  said  it  so  pleasurably 
that  he  inclined  them  to  follow  his  advice, 
effecting  more  than  a  score  of  the  treatises  on 
education  then  in  vogue. 

Montaigne,  indeed,  invented  the  art  of  criti- 
cism of  life — and,  inventing  the  Essay  with 
it,  he  gave  that  art  the  only  mode  informal 
enough  to  express  it — deliberately  informal, 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  175 

in  spite  of  his  insistence  on  his  carelessness. 
He  was  the  father  of  all  essayists  and  aphorists 
to  come — of  La  Rochefoucauld,  of  La  Bruyere, 
of  Addison,  of  Lamb,  of  Hazlitt.  He  was, 
indeed,  the  first  man  of  letters,  as  we  conceive 
such.  He  fulfilled  the  great  function  of 
literature  :  he  made  wisdom  attractive. 

And  if  he  was  the  father  of  the  essayists,  he 
was  also  the  father  of  the  modern  novelist. 
For  Montaigne  may  be  said  to  have  been  the 
initiator  of  psychology — of  a  subtle  personal 
note  in  his  study  of  life  and  men  that  was 
unknown  before  him,  a  study  made  at  closer 
quarters  with  his  kind  than  any  ventured  by 
his  predecessors.  Until  his  day,  the  scholars 
and  literati  of  the  Renaissance  aimed  at 
uniformity,  at  an  even  style,  even  in  their 
letters — a  standard  fostered  by  the  general  use 
of  Latin  as  a  literary  medium.  The  intrusion 
of  the  individual  element  was  regarded  as  a 
sin  against  taste — a  natural  style  was  a  vulgar 
one.  The  current  conception  of  literature 
and  the  art  of  writing  was  that  it  should  be 
elegant  and  non-natural.  For  a  Rabelais  it 
was  easier  to  transgress  these  laws,  because  his 
thought  took  the  shape  of  satire,  and  he  spoke 
through  the  mouth  of  certain  dramatis  persons. 
For  Montaigne  the  task  was  harder,  because 


176  MONTAIGNE 

hitherto  unattempted.  The  one  book  of  his 
day  that  resembles  him  in  its  modernness,  its 
familiar  human  touch,  is  the  Memoirs  of 
Marguerite  de  Navarre,  and  it  is  only  when 
we  have  read  his  Essays  that  we  realise  how 
much  she  was  his  disciple — a  disciple  from 
kinship,  not  from  mere  imitation.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  her  letters  and  those  of  his 
other  great  pupil,  her  husband,  Henri  iv.- — 
letters  in  both  cases  so  fresh  and  racy,  so 
distinct  from  all  sixteenth-century  correspon- 
dence, that  they  seem  to  mark  a  frontier-line 
between  the  old  and  the  new  ;  to  leave  the 
past  behind  them  and  reach  towards  us, 
bridging  over  the  gulf  of  time. 

c  Others  form  men,  I  record  them/  l  Mon- 
taigne said.  .  .  .  c  We  know  of  none  but  two 
or  three  ancients  who  have  cut  out  this  path. 
.  .  .  None  since  then  have  dared  to  tread  in  their 
footsteps.  It  is  a  thorny  adventure,  more  even 
than  appeareth,  to  follow  a  course  so  vagabond 
as  that  of  the  mind,  to  dive  down  into  the 
opaque  depths  of  its  innermost  recesses,  to 
arrest  in  their  flight  the  light  breezes  that 
perturb  it.  This  is,  in  truth,  a  new  and 
passing  strange  amusement,  and  one  which 
withdraweth  us  from  the  common  business  of 

1  Essais,  iii.  2  :  *  Du  Repentir.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  177 

the  world.' l  This  c  amusement '  led  him 
straight  to  the  point.  'There  existeth  as 
great  a  difference  between  us  and  ourselves  as 
between  us  and  others.' 2  So  Montaigne  said 
nearly  a  century  before  Pascal,  in  his  Pensees, 
wrote,  '  No  man  is  so  different  from  another 
as  one  man  is  from  himself.'  c  It  appertaineth 
not,'  he  goes  on,  cto  a  well-balanced  under- 
standing to  judge  ourselves  simply  by  our 
outward  actions.  We  must  sound  the  inner 
depths  and  search  out  what  springs  cause  the 
motion  ;  but,  for  that  it  is  a  hazardous  and 
high  emprise,  I  should  wish  that  fewer  persons 
concerned  themselves  therein.' 3 

Here  is  the  secret  of  the  knowledge  of 
character — the  secret  of  the  novelist  and 
playwright,  the  knowledge  that  Montaigne 
acquired  so  richly.  And  in  what  region  did 
he  acquire  it  ?  That  was  another  of  his 
inventions.  He  found  the  knowledge  in  him- 
self, the  one  safe  method  of  getting  at  the 
truth.  He  discovered  himself  like  an  America 
— a  new  world,  strange  and  yet  his  own,  full 
of  endless  interest  to  feed  his  curiosity. 

e  For  some  years  I  have   had   no  one  but 

1  Essais,  ii.  6  :  'De  1'Exercitation.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  I  :  '  De  1'Inconstance  de  nos  actions.' 
8  Ibid. 

M 


178  MONTAIGNE 

myself  as  an  object  for  my  thoughts  ;  I  have 
controlled,  I  have  studied  none  other  ;  and  if 
ever  I  study  something  else,  it  is  that  I  may 
turn  it  on,  or,  rather,  into  myself.  Nor  can 
I  think  myself  wrong  if  I  behave  as  I  do  with 
other  sciences  .  .  .  and  impart  my  learning, 
however  ill-pleased  I  be  with  my  progress. 
There  is  no  description  so  difficult  to  make  as 
the  description  of  oneself,  nor  one  so  useful.' 1 
.  .  .  *  At  least  I  have  this  much  of  discipline — 
that  never  man  treated  subject  that  he  Bunder- 
stood  .  .  .  better  than  I  do  mine,  and  that 
herein  I  am  the  most  learned  scholar  alive.5  2 
.  .  .  c  And  I  do  not  love  myself  so  indiscreetly, 
nor  am  I  so  ...  commingled  with  myself 
that  I  cannot  .  .  .  consider  myself  apart,  as 
if  I  were  a  neighbour  or  a  tree.' 3  .  .  . 

There  is  no  corner  of  himself  that  Mon- 
taigne keeps  from  us — no  secret  of  vice  or  virtue 
that  he  leaves  unrevealed.  His  Essays  are  the 
frankest — perhaps  the  only  frank  —  autobio- 
graphy in  existence.  The  one  other  record  as 
confidential,  for  worse  as  well  as  for  better,  is  the 
Confessions  of  Rousseau.  But  Rousseau's  self- 
revelations,  sordid  or  noble,  do  not  carry  con- 

1  Essais,  ii.  6  :  *  De  PExercitation.' 

2  Essats,  iii.  2  :  '  Du  Repentir.' 

8  Essais,  iii.  8  :  '  De  1'Art  de  conferer.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 


179 


viction  like  those  of  Montaigne.  We  feel  that 
his  immoderate  egoism,  his  poisonous  vanity, 
made  him  love  to  exaggerate  the  evil  that  was 
in  him  as  well  as — even  more  than — the  good ; 
that  he  was  neither  so  bad  nor  so  high-minded 
as  he  makes  out.  He  cannot  look  at  himself 
for  a  moment  without  tears  ;  every  page  is 
garbled  by  emotion.  He  is  his  own  Galatea, 
with  whom,  great  artist  that  he  is,  he  falls 
in  love  as  he  works.  And  he  works  for 
the  artist's  end  alone — to  leave  a  picture, 
to  make  the  impression  that  he  desires  to 
make. 

Montaigne's  motive  is  widely  different. 
His  aim  is  scientific  before  all  else.  An  egoist 
he  is  in  one  sense — the  sense  of  literal  people 
— but  his  egoism  is,  so  to  speak,  impersonal. 
He  is  exclusively  preoccupied  with  himself 
because  he  wants  to  throw  light  upon  human 
nature,  and  self-knowledge  is  his  only  sure 
means  of  obtaining  scientific  results.  He  re- 
gards himself  with  cool  curiosity,  without  com- 
ment, more  especially  without  the  comment  of 
emotion.  Montaigne  is  never  moved  about 
himself,  and  so  his  account  remains  authentic. 
Unhistrionic,  uncondemning,  uncondoning,  he 
states  himself.  An  artist  he  is  in  his  self- 
painting  as  well  as  a  scientific  man,  but  it  is 


i8o  MONTAIGNE 

with  the  art  of  the  Dutch  School — positive, 
unerring,  impartial,  rich  in  detail — an  art 
which  implies  the  cult  of  science. 

That  Montaigne  did  not  originate  ideas  but 
rather  lent  them  form  and  colour,  was  a  fact 
that  did  not  prevent  him  from  transforming 
them.  He  put  old  conceptions  in  such  a 
fresh  aspect  that  he  changed  their  nature,  he 
threw  a  light  upon  them  which  altered  pro- 
portions and  made  them  unrecognisable.  He 
renewed  their  vitality — they  were  born  again. 
By  giving  a  novel  touch  to  worn  terms,  he 
added  pages  to  the  dictionary  of  life.  If 
Montaigne's  thought  was  not  creative,  it  was 
original. 

His  practical  philosophy  has  a  thousand 
facets.  Men  have  felt  and  written  more 
differently  about  him,  perhaps,  than  about  any 
other  author,  according  as  one  facet  pleased 
them  more  than  another.  They  have,  maybe, 
tried  too  strenuously  to  make  a  connected 
system  from  the  verdicts  of  one  who  boasted 
of  human  inconsistency  and  himself  said  :  c  It 
seemeth  to  me  strange  when  I  see  men  of 
mind — as  I  sometimes  do — giving  themselves 
a  world  of  pains  to  make  order  out  of  these 
stray  pieces.' 1  To  follow  in  the  steps  of  his 

1  Essais,  ii.  I  :  *  De  I'lnconstance  de  nos  actions.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  181 

many  commentators  may  be  little  better  than 
repetition.  But  each  new  venturer  in  the 
field  must  see  that,  among  the  terms  and  con- 
ceptions that  he  regenerated,  there  are  some 
more  essential  than  the  rest,  and  by  grasping 
the  significance  he  gave  to  these  we  get  the 
key  to  the  significance  of  all.  Every 
one  must  bring  his  own  light,  and,  how- 
ever inadequate  it  be,  it  may  yet  suffice 
to  throw  a  ray  upon  some  unobserved 
angle  which  has  hitherto  been  hidden  in 
obscurity. 

If  we  understand  Montaigne's  version  of 
the  word  moderation,  and  his  attitude  towards 
nature  and  knowledge,  we  shall  understand 
the  character  of  Montaigne's  mind,  for  his 
views  of  nature  and  of  knowledge  involve  his 
conception  of  religion. 

The  truth  most  widely  known  about  him  is 
probably  his  love  of  moderation.  The  Via 
Media  was  the  one  road  he  would  travel  on, 
and  he  insisted  on  good  inns  by  the  way,  with 
a  proper  provision  of  crayfish  and  clean  linen. 
He  was  a  past-master  of  the  map  ;  he  knew 
the  topography  of  the  highway,  and  he  made 
sure  beforehand  that  it  offered  no  pretence  of 
leading  him  to  any  New  Jerusalem.  But  his 
interpretation  of  temperance  was  hardly  what 


ite 


MONTAIGNE 


die  less  real  for  that. 


he  says,  'is  the  pestilence  which  kflkth 


Hr 


THE  PHILOSOPHER          183 


also  despised  u9e  vounjj  man  ^FOO  cocdo 
i .  ,  •  . .       __j  j; j  ««^%^- 

Ht  not  only  wanted  him  to  fed 
wanted  him  to  yield  to  it  so  that  he 
re  die  art  of  drawing  in  the 
eta-red  him  to  be  had  in  good 


he  may  even  be 

!_,-.  T   _!_„:„     .  -  - 

out  i  Ojcstre  mac 
ness  he  should  excel  his 
and   vigour,  and   that   he   should 
JLudii  ^^•"g  evu  uuua  any  ladL  of 
or   knowledge,   but    rather  from  a  lack   of 


dpkakne.    The^cti 

-  I.,.         .1      1      *      f- 

shoold  be  a  man.    They  both 

C  ...  ,,.,-.       .....  ..    »     a!.-         _ '  -  -  -     - 

r.     __.j —      ^..r    r_.r 


1£o«,i  26:  *Dfc 
»»— -  m.i3:«n 


1 84  MONTAIGNE 

the  child  of  Nature  before  he  was  the  child  of 
Art.  Montaigne,  the  spectator  in  his  armchair, 
with  a  mind  of  colder  colour,  loved  the  dash 
of  scarlet  in  others,  and  especially  in  the  young. 
But  the  scarlet  must  stop  short — there  must 
be  no  disturbance  of  the  peace.  And  ever  and 
again  he  comes  back  to  his  constant  refrain — 
there  must  never  be  zeal.  c  Immoderateness,' 
he  says,  *  even  in  what  is  good,  if  it  doth  not 
actually  offend  me,  astoundeth  me  and  leaveth 
me  at  a  loss  for  a  name  wherewith  to  baptize 
it.' l  c  We  may  grasp  at  virtue  in  such  fashion 
as  to  make  her  vicious — if,  that  is,  we  desire 
to  embrace  her  with  too  great  suddenness  and 
violence.' 2  c  The  archer  who  overshooteth  the 
mark  doth  the  same  as  he  who  falleth  short.  .  .  . 
Callicles,  in  Plato,  saith  that  the  extreme  of 
philosophy  is  harmful.  .  .  .  He  saith  true,  for 
by  its  excess  it  enslaveth  our  natural  freedom, 
and,  by  its  importunate  subtleties,  it  putteth 
us  out  of  the  beautiful  broad  high  road,  the 
which  Nature  hath  mapped  out  for  us.'3 

6  Prove  all  things,  hold  fast  that  which  is 
convenient,'  might  well  stand  as  the  summary 
of  Montaigne's  code  of  moderation.  His  was 

1  Essais,  1.30:  «  DC  la  Moderation.' 

2  Ibid. 

3  Ibid. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  185 

not  the  temperance  of  self-conquest  or  of  a 
high-minded  wisdom  ;  considering  the  wide 
margin  that  he  allowed  for  the  enjoyment  of 
the  senses,  he  had  little  temptation  to  with- 
stand. His  dispassionate  contemplation  of 
various  vicious  forms  of  self-indulgence,  his 
appraisement  of  them  merely  as  they  were 
pleasurable  and  hygienic,  or  unrepaying  and 
unhealthy,  are  mere  matters  of  an  orderly  ex- 
pediency. Like  all  accomplished  ambassadors, 
Montaigne  wanted  to  keep  peace  in  the 
kingdom  he  represented — the  kingdom  of 
human  nature  :  peace  it  was  at  almost  any 
price,  especially  in  his  own  domains,  because 
emotion  was  disturbing  and  disagreeable.  But 
of  private  enemies,  we  repeat,  he  had  few  to 
contend  with.  The  only  thing  in  which  he 
was  immoderate  was  his  moderation,  and  even 
here  he  was  aware  of  his  danger.  '  Temper- 
ance .  .  .  drags  me  too  far  backwards,'  he 
says,  c  it  even  drags  me  into  stupidity.  I 
wish  to  be  master  of  myself  in  every  sense. 
Wisdom  has  its  excesses,  and  has  no  less  need 
of  moderation  than  folly.' 1  He  was  perhaps 
a  little  intemperate,  too,  in  his  curiosity.  He 
garnered  every  fact  he  could  lay  hands  on  with 
the  lavishness  and  credulity  of  the  collector  ; 

1  Essais,  ili.  5  :  '  Sur  des  vcrs  de  Virgile.' 


1 86  MONTAIGNE 

he  was  greedy  for  any  sort  of  sensation.  But 
he  was  so  quick  a  reader  of  Life  that  he 
plucked  the  meaning  out  of  a  page  in  a 
moment,  and  had  done  with  each  experience 
before  it  hurt  him. 

Montaigne's  moderation,  if  he  had  but 
known  it,  was  largely  made  of  good  taste,  and 
had  he  been  born  two  centuries  later,  and  used 
his  taste  in  literary  criticism,  he  would  have 
stood  as  the  greatest  master  of  that  art. 

But  good  taste  implies  more  than  literary 
criticism.  There  is  a  kind  of  moral  taste 
which  is  dignity,  and  of  this  quality  Montaigne 
had  rich  store.  c  Withdraw  into  yourself,  but 
first  prepare  yourself  to  receive  yourself,' l 
he  said,  and  this  was  a  central  article  of  his 
creed.  Self-control  was  one  of  the  few  virtues 
that  he  preached,  but  self-control  in  his 
vocabulary  was  hardly  distinguishable  from 
self-preservation.  The  power  of  restraint  in- 
cluded, indeed,  his  highest  point  of  view  and 
his  lowest — on  the  one  hand,  his  care  to 
preserve  seemly,  even  noble  proportions,  his 
need  of  an  often  austere  self-discipline  ;  on 
the  other,  his  cold  determination  to  avoid  dis- 
turbance, and  his  willingness  to  take  refuge  in 
any  hovel  that  would  give  him  shelter. 

1  Essais,  i.  39:  'De  la  Solitude.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  187 

4  Few  passions  have  troubled  my  sleep,'  he 
says,  .  .  .  c  I  gladly  avoid  steep  and  slippery 
slopes,  and  plunge  into  beaten  tracks  :  and  I 
choose  thereof  the  muddiest  and  the  swampiest, 
so  that  I  cannot  sink  below  it.  Thus  seek  I 
safety.'1  'As  to  such  affections  as  distract 
me  from  myself  and  attach  me  elsewhere,  to 
these,  in  faith,  I  am  opposed  with  all  my 
strength.  For  I  hold  that  we  must  lend 
ourselves  to  others  and  only  give  ourselves  to 
ourselves.'  2 

4  The  prize  for  which  the  soul  maketh,  is 
not  to  walk  on  the  heights,  but  to  walk 
orderly.  It  practiseth  not  its  greatness  in 
greatness  but  in  mediocrity.'3 

His  system  of  spiritual  insurance  was 
universal.  It  extended  impartially  to  our  most 
instinctive  affections  and  our  most  cultivated 
ambitions. 

4  He  who  doth  not  cherish  either  his 
children  or  his  honours  with  slavish  inclina- 
tion, may  make  sure  of  living  comfortably 
when  he  hath  lost  them.' 4 

When,  however,  he  turns  his  thoughts  to 
the  politics  he  so  despised,  his  prudence  often 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  '  DC  la  Pr&omption.' 

2  Essais,  ui.  10  :  4De  menager  sa  volonteV 

3  Essais,  in.  2  :  '  Du  Repentir.' 

4  Essais,  in.  10 :  '  De  menager  sa  volonte*. 


1 88  MONTAIGNE 

becomes  enlightenment.  '  It  is  better/  he 
says,  c  to  make  the  laws  desire  what  they  can 
do,  since  they  cannot  do  what  they  desire.' l 
Anything  seems  to  him  better  than  quick 
changes,  because  of  the  agitation  that  must 
precede  them.  But  here,  again,  his  moderation 
leads  him  very  near  the  extravagance  of 
sobriety  that  he  deplores — of  the  kind,  too, 
that  almost  touches  cowardice.  Reform  was 
to  him  anathema  :  it  became  the  symbol  of 
intellectual  arrogance  and  unnecessary  dis- 
comfort. 

c  As  long/  he  wrote,  c  as  the  image  of  the 
ancient  laws  received  by  this  monarchy  shineth 
on  in  any  hole  or  corner,  in  that  hole  or 
corner  do  I  plant  myself.  But  if  by  evil 
fortune  it  should  happen  that  they  fall  out 
among  themselves,  contravening  one  the  other, 
so  that  two  parties  are  produced  difficult  and 
doubtful  of  choice,  then  my  decision  will  be 
gladly  to  escape  and  to  get  quit  of  the 
tempest/  2 

At  its  best,  Montaigne's  creed  of  self- 
preservation  often  reminds  us  of  that  of 
Goethe.  Both  were  dominated  by  good  taste 
and  good  sense,  which,  with  Montaigne  some- 

1  Essats,  i.  23  :    '  De  la  coutume  et   de  ne  changer  aisement 
une  loi  re9ue.'  2  Essais,  iii.  9  :  '  De  la  Vanite.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  189 

times,  with  Goethe  often,  rose  to  wisdom  ; 
and  both  were  almost  tyrannised  over  by 
prudence,  which  they  too  often  took  for 
philosophy  ;  both  again,  first  by  nature,  then 
on  principle,  made  something  like  a  cult  of 
mental  equilibrium.  Both  were  beneficent 
and  cold — both  loved  security  and  hated  any 
break  in  their  calm.  It  was  a  natural  con- 
sequence that  both  should  dislike  party  politics 
and  abstain  from  public  affairs — and  that  both 
should  have  been  able  to  provide  the  best 
moral  reasons  for  doing  so.  Goethe  would 
have  sympathised  with  Montaigne  in  his  first 
rejection  of  the  mayorship  of  Bordeaux,  no 
less  than  with  his  civic  dignity  in  the  subse- 
quent fulfilment  of  his  functions  ;  would  have 
sympathised,  also,  with  his  avoidance  of  in- 
fection when  the  town  was  smitten  by  the 
plague.  As  nearly  as  possible,  these  two  men 
were  purely  intellectual  —  intellectual  before 
they  were  human — and  such  as  these  (and 
they  are  few)  must  always  distrust  the  warmer 
qualities  and  care  most  for  the  maintenance 
of  proportion.  Both,  indeed,  were  men  of 
positive  science  —  though  Goethe  had  the 
more  creative  genius,  and,  living  in  a  scientific 
age,  could  better  bring  his  gifts  to  the  birth. 
Both  again,  to  sum  up,  were  born  Pagans — 


i  go  MONTAIGNE 

of  the  strongest  kind,  unconscious  of  their 
Paganism.  But  in  Goethe's  case,  the  poet  in 
him  ennobled  the  rest  —  his  love  of  beauty 
enriched  him — his  worship  of  Nature  helped 
him  to  an  ideal  Pantheism  ;  while  Montaigne, 
who  had  little  sense  of  beauty  beyond  that 
required  of  all  Renaissance  gentlemen,  and 
whose  attitude  to  Nature,  on  his  travels,  was 
a  matter  of  curiosity  or  of  geography,  had  no 
transmuting  processes  for  his  materialism.  He 
remained  a  practical  Pagan,  absorbed  in  the 
problem  before  him  :  that  of  the  union  of 
prudence  with  the  due  enjoyment  of  the  senses. 
In  speaking  of  Montaigne  we  must  never 
forget  his  strong  individual  temperament. 
There  was  in  him  one  great  force  which  must 
be  reckoned  with.  It  was,  as  it  were,  a  force 
in  solution,  which  permeated  all  his  views  and 
unconsciously  directed  his  decisions.  This 
was  his  hatred  of  pedantry — Montaigne's 
Pedanterie^  which  included  most  offences 
against  naturalness.  To  him,  pedantry  was 
the  devil,  to  be  fought  with  the  whole 
human  armoury.  It  was  the  feeling  that  he 
shared  with  Shakespeare — that,  and  a  bound- 
less curiosity,  an  appetite  for  experience, 
all  alike  parts  of  the  equipment  of  a  rich 
humanity.  We  cannot  help  a  vain  desire 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  191 

that  Montaigne  could  have  known  Malvolio. 
For  the  pedantry  of  virtue — any  Puritanism 
— lashed  Montaigne  into  his  most  stinging 
irony,  and  this  hostility  it  is  which  colours  his 
idea  of  moderation.  Excessive  or  fastidious 
morality — c  reforms  ' — Huguenotteries — asceti- 
cism— warmed  him  into  anger,  into  action. 
Above  all,  asceticism,  for  that  was  a  sin 
against  Nature.  Rabelais  had  been  in  the 
lists  before  him,  had  shown  up  the  bitterly 
hated  monks,  had  built  his  Abbey  of  Thelema 
and  written  Fais  ce  que  voudras  over  its  portal. 
Rabelais  had  been  the  pioneer.  But  Mon- 
taigne brought  fresh  vigour  to  the  warfare, 
subtler  and  more  modern  weapons.  And  it 
is  his  conception  of  Nature  which  governs  all 
the  rest  of  his  scheme.  Like  every  other 
writer,  he  means  a  dozen  different  things 
when  he  says  Nature.  Yet  his  outlook  upon 
them  all  is  the  same.  *  We  must  judge,'  he 
says,  *  with  more  reverence  of  this  infinite 
power  of  Nature — with  more  acknowledg- 
ment of  our  ignorance  and  weakness.' l 

The  various  meanings  he  gives  to  the 
general  term  may  be  gathered  up  under  three 
main  headings.  Of  Nature  in  the  Words- 

1  Essais^  i.  27  :  *  C'est  folie  de  rapporter  le  vrai  et  le  faux  a 
notre  suffisance/ 


192  MONTAIGNE 

worthian  sense,  of  a  great  and  consoling  being, 
a  world  of  beauty  beyond  ourselves,  he  knew 
nothing — such  a  notion  was  outside  his  period. 
But  of  natural  phenomena  and  natural  facts, 
of  natural  law,  of  natural  instinct,  he  knew 
much.  He  observed  patiently  and  impartially 
•  — he  observed  without  emotion  or  prejudice 
— he  observed  in  the  critical  spirit.  '  There 
is  nothing  useless  in  Nature,'  he  said,  cnot 
even  uselessness.' l  His  vision  of  natural  facts 
and  phenomena  was  bound  to  be  hampered  in 
that  pre-scientific  age.  But  it  was  not  the 
strength  of  the  vision  that  failed,  only  the  means 
of  investigation.  What  he  saw,  he  saw  as  clearly 
and  fearlessly  as  any  modern,  and  whatever 
allusion  he  makes  in  this  direction  is  always 
amazingly  advanced  on  the  path  of  science — 
sometimes  almost  three  centuries  ahead. 

'  Concerning  animals,'  he  says,  c  this  truth 
also  holdeth,  witness  the  sheep  of  Jacob,  and 
partridges  and  hares,  the  which  the  snow 
whitens  on  the  mountains.  At  my  place,  a 
short  while  ago,  a  cat  was  seen  watching  a 
bird  at  the  top  of  a  tree,  and  after  they  had 
for  awhile  stared  fixedly  one  at  the  other,  the 
bird  let  itself  drop  like  a  dead  thing  between 
the  paws  of  the  cat,  intoxicated  by  its  own 

1  Essais,  iii.  i  :  '  De  1'Utile  et  de  1'Honnete.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  193 

observation,  or  drawn  by  some  attractive  force 
in  the  cat.' l 

It  is,  however,  when  we  come  to  his  study 
of  man  that  we  find  Montaigne  at  his  boldest. 

c  The  laws  of  conscience  that  we  say  are 
born  of  nature  are  really  born  of  custom,'  he 
writes — '  Every  man  holdeth  in  veneration 
the  opinions  and  morals  approved  and  received 
by  those  around  him,  nor  can  he  depart  from 
them  without  remorse,  nor  practise  them 
without  self-applause.' 2 

If  Montaigne  had  been  made  to  be  a  martyr, 
his  whole  conception  of  natural  law  might 
well  have  brought  him  to  the  stake.  His 
nonchalance  saved  him — that  and  the  form 
of  the  Essay,  which  covered  heresies  so  care- 
lessly and  colloquially  that  no  one  discovered 
them. 

'  It  is  probable,'  he  says,  c  that  the  chief 
credit  of  miracles,  of  visions,  and  spells,  and 
such  abnormal  effects,  hath  its  source  in  the 
power  of  imagination,  acting  principally  upon 
the  minds  of  the  vulgar,  the  which  are  softer 
than  others.  Their  belief  has  been  so  strongly 
got  hold  of,  that  they  think  they  see  what 

1  Essais,  i.  20  :  '  De  la  Force  de  I'lmagination.' 

2  Essais,  i.  22:   '  De  la  coutume  et  de  nc  changer  aise'ment 
une  loi  re^ue.' 

N 


194  MONTAIGNE 

they  do  not  see.'1  .  .  .  'There  are  some  who 
ascribe  the  scars  of  King  Dagobert  and  of  St. 
Francis  to  the  strength  of  the  imagination.' 2 

c  Miracles  exist  according  to  our  ignorance 
of  nature,  not  according  to  nature's  true 
being.  Custom  drugs  the  sap  of  our  judg- 
ment. Savages  are  no  more  wonderful  to  us 
than  we  to  them,  nor  with  better  cause — as 
every  one  would  acknowledge,  if,  after  letting 
his  mind  rove  among  all  these  new  specimens, 
he  knew  how  to  come  home  and  look  at  the 
things  he  found  there,  and  order  them  sanely. 
Human  reason  is  a  dye,  coloured  in  about 
equal  proportion  by  all  our  opinions  and 
moralities,  whatever  shape  they  assume : 
infinite  in  matter,  infinite  in  variety.' 3 

But  the  resistance  of  man's  reason  to  miracles 
is  not  to  be  made  a  source  of  pride.  He  does 
not  forget  to  hit  the  '  superior  '  person.  If  he 
allows  that  the  '  vulgar '  are  more  credulous, 
he  hastens  to  assure  us  that  the  vices  of 
credulity  are  preferable  to  those  of  incredulity. 

c  Children  and  vulgar  folk,  and  women,  and 
sick  people  are  apter  to  be  led  by  the  nose. 
But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  a  foolish 
presumption  to  go  scorning  and  condemning 

1  Essais,  i.  20  :  *  De  la  force  dc  1'Imagination.'  2  Ibid. 

3  Essais,  i.  22  :   '  De  la  coutume  et  de  ne  changer  aise'ment 
une  loi  ^116.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  195 

as  false  that  which  doth  not  seem  probable  to 
ourselves.  This  is  a  vice  which  is  common 
among  those  who  think  that  they  have  some 
kind  of  competence  above  the  ordinary.  .  .  . 
Nor  has  experience  ever  shown  me  anything 
higher  than  my  first  beliefs — no  blame  to  my 
curiosity.  But  reason  has  taught  me  that  thus 
resolutely  to  condemn  a  thing  as  false  and 
impossible  is  to  give  oneself  the  privilege  of 
laying  down  in  one's  head  set  limits  to  the 
will  of  God  and  the  power  of  our  mother, 
Nature  ;  and  there  is  no  more  notable  folly  in 
the  world  than  to  reduce  these  to  the  measure- 
ments of  our  capacities  and  our  sufficiency.'1 

4  We  must  not  judge  of  that  which  is 
possible  or  impossible  according  to  what  is 
credible  to  our  senses.' 2 

c  What  we  call  monsters  are  not  such  to 
God,  Who  seeth  in  the  immensity  of  His 
handiwork  the  infinity  of  forms  the  which 
He  hath  comprised  therein.  From  His  All- 
Wisdom  proceedeth  nothing  but  what  is  good, 
and  common,  and  lawful  ;  but  we  see  neither 
the  order  nor  the  relation  of  what  is  created.'3 

1  Essats,  i.  27 :  'C'est  folie  de  rapporter  le  vrai  et  le  faux  a 
notre  suffisance.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  32  :  e  Defence  de  S6neque  et  de  Plutarque.' 

3  Essats,  ii.  30 :  *  D'un  enfant  monstrueux.' 


196  MONTAIGNE 

Here,  again,  peeps  out  his  aversion  to  the 
pedant,  to  whatever  pretence  divides  any  man 
from  the  high-road  and  the  common  herd. 
It  is  curious  to  find  this  kind  of  democratic 
notion  in  two  of  the  greatest  conservatives  the 
world  has  produced — in  Shakespeare  and  in 
Montaigne.  It  was  born  of  their  passion  for 
the  obvious  and  their  hatred  of  presumption, 
natural  perhaps  to  minds  so  greatly  sane  in 
that  day  of  the  late  Renaissance  when  intel- 
lectual pride  had  led  men  into  decadent  depths 
of  vice,  and  the  rich  lived  hedged  in  by  an 
insolent  state.  For  though  Shakespeare  and 
Montaigne  were  both  of  them  aristocrats  at 
heart,  they  were  even  more  strongly  humour- 
ists, and  much  though  both  disliked  the  mob, 
they  disliked  pomp  and  circumstance  still 
more.  And  both  of  them  loved,  or  believed 
they  loved,  the  poor  and  humble,  though 
perhaps  what  they  really  loved  was  poverty, 
because  they  thought  that  it  meant  simplicity. 

But  here  Montaigne,  at  least,  was  guilty  of 
a  great  fallacy,  and  one  which  falsifies  a  good 
deal  of  his  thought.  In  confounding  poverty 
with  simplicity,  and  crudeness  with  sincerity, 
he  made  much  the  same  mistake  as  Rousseau. 
Each  advocated  a  return  to  Nature,  and  each 
took  nature  and  naturalness  to  mean  the  same 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  197 

thing.  They  dreamed  that  the  presence  of 
artificial  conditions  was  responsible  for  human 
depravity. 

'  We  have  abandoned  Nature,'  says  Mon- 
taigne, cwe  wish  ourselves  to  teach  her  her 
lessons — to  her  who  led  us  so  happily  and  so 
safely.  Our  wisdom  might  from  the  very 
beasts  get  the  most  useful  knowledge  concern- 
ing the  greatest,  most  essential  functions  of 
our  life  :  we  might  learn  how  to  live,  to  die, 
to  manage  our  property,  to  love  and  to  educate 
our  children,  and  to  maintain  justice.'1 

Even  Rousseau  would  not  have  wished  little 
Emile  to  be  brought  up  like  the  young  of  the 
lion,  but  then  Montaigne  and  Rousseau  chose 
different  representatives  of  their  ideal  state. 
Rousseau,  the  eighteenth-century  idyllist,  trans- 
formed the  peasant  ;  Montaigne,  the  Renais- 
sance discoverer,  transformed  the  savage.  It 
was  not  that  Montaigne  did  not  admire 
peasants  ;  we  have  seen  that  his  infancy  was 
passed  with  them,  and  in  his  own  scheme  of 
education  he  warmly  advocated  the  cultivation 
of  their  habits.  But  the  savage  appealed  to 
him.  He  had  talked  to  two  aborigines  at 
Rouen,  to  others,  doubtless,  on  occasion,  yet  the 
real  savage  was  as  unknown  to  him  as  the  real 

1  Essais,  iii.  12:  '  De  la  Physionomie.' 


198  MONTAIGNE 

peasant  to  Rousseau.  Both  peasant  and  savage 
were  in  the  air  of  their  respective  centuries  : 
Rousseau's  peasants,  because  men  were  sated 
with  pleasure  and  civilisation  and  demanded 
something  new  to  revive  them;  Montaigne's 
savages,  because  his  generation  had  grown 
corrupted  by  old  institutions  and  by  book- 
learning,  because,  worn  with  civil  war  and 
schism,  it  was  easy  to  lay  the  blame  on  systems 
and  functionaries,  and  to  imagine  that  the 
absence  of  such  evils  would  bring  the  longed- 
for  peace  and  prosperity.  Yet  it  is  strange  to 
compare  Montaigne's  usual  caution  with  his 
anarchic  Utopia.  Because  he  scorned  the 
fripperies  of  the  law,  and  savages  have  no 
magistrates,  he  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that 
their  condition  was  the  perfect  one.  His  great 
essay,  Des  Cannibales^  is  full  of  such  argu- 
ments— not  casuistries  like  those  of  the  Contrat 
Social^  but  naive,  almost  childish  blunders. 

c  Those  who  return  from  that  New  World 
which  was  discovered  in  the  time  of  our 
fathers  can  bear  me  witness  that  these  people, 
without  laws  or  magistrates,  live  far  more 
lawfully  and  regularly  than  we  do  here,  where 
there  are  more  officials  than  there  are  other 
men,  and  more  laws  than  there  are  actions.' * 

1  Essazs,  ii.  12:  *  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  199 

And,  again,  he  uses  his  aborigines  as  weapons 
against  prudery,  conceit,  and  provincialism. 

c  Now/  he  says,  '  to  come  back  to  my 
subject,  I  find,  by  all  reports,  that  this  race 
showeth  no  trace  of  savagery  or  barbarism — 
unless  every  man  calleth  barbarism  that  to 
which  he  is  not  accustomed  ;  and,  in  truth,  it 
seemeth  that  we  have  no  other  mirror  of 
truth  and  reason  than  the  example  of  the 
views  and  usages  of  the  country  in  which  we 
live. 

c  There  we  have  always  the  perfect  religion, 
the  perfect  government,  the  perfect  and  accom- 
plished administration  of  all  things.  .  .  .  But 
this  race  of  which  I  speak  ...  is  one  which 
hath  no  kind  of  commerce  ;  no  knowledge  of 
letters  ;  no  science  of  numbers  ;  no  title  of 
magistrate  or  of  any  political  superiority  ;  no 
tradition  of  service  ;  of  riches  or  of  poverty  ; 
no  contracts ;  no  successions  ;  no  partition  of 
possessions  ;  no  occupations  excepting  idle 
ones  ;  no  respect  of  relationship,  save  what  is 
common  ;  no  clothing  ;  no  agriculture  ;  no 
metal ;  no  use  of  wine  or  corn.  .  .  .  There 
is  nothing  so  very  bad  in  all  this.  But,  then, 
they  wear  no  tops  to  their  breeches.' l 

A  return  to  Nature  is  always  the  return  of 

1  Essais,  i.  3 1 :  '  Des  Cannibales.' 


200  MONTAIGNE 

the  Prodigal,  and  the  setting  up  the  savage 
or  the  peasant  as  the  type  of  perfection  is  a 
form  of  disgust  with  corruption.  But  Mon- 
taigne meant  something  more  than  this — 
something  of  far  deeper  significance.  He  is 
tilting  against  the  human  intellect  —  against 
its  presumptions,  its  duperies,  its  disillusion- 
ment, its  failure  to  help  or  guide  mankind, 
its  impotence  in  the  face  of  life  and  death. 
And  he  was  answered.  For  it  seems  as  if, 
for  once,  we  may  believe  with  some  show  of 
certainty  that  Shakespeare  rose  to  hold  the 
brief  for  the  mind  and  for  civilised  man.  It 
is  well  known  that  the  last  quoted  passage 
(for  which  reason  we  have  used  Florio's  words 
in  the  version  which  Shakespeare  used)  was 
the  passage  which  he  reproduced  in  Gonzalo's 
famous  speech  in  the  Tempest^ 1  —  words 
which  show  that  he  had  been  reading  '  Con- 
cerning Cannibals.'  And  Caliban  is  his 

1  I'  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things ;  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit  ;  no  name  of  magistrate  , 
Letters  should  not  be  known ;  riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service,  none  ;  contract,  succession, 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none  ; 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil  ; 
No  occupation  ;  all  men  idle,  all ; 
And  women  too  ;  but  innocent  and  pure  ; 
No  sovereignty.  .  .  . 


THE  PHILOSOPHER          201 

answer — his  laughing  answer,  most  think — to 
Montaigne.  But  there  is  grave  irony  below 
the  mirth.  Montaigne  accuses  the  white  man 
of  depraving  the  wise  and  innocent  savage. 
Prospero  desired  to  transform  the  life  of  bestial 
discomfort  until  he  found  that  his  efforts  were 
of  no  use.  It  was  not  the  princely  Prospero 
who  affected  Caliban  ;  it  was  Trinculo  and 
Stephano,  the  scum  of  their  kind,  the  nearest 
to  him,  who  made  him  their  creature  through 
the  bottle.  The  play  seems  to  hover  round 
the  question  of  conquered  natives,  of  the  con- 
queror's rights,  of  the  good  he  can  do  ;  but 
it  would  appear  that  Shakespeare  meant  even 
more  than  that.  Intellect,  Montaigne  says,  is 
vanity  :  Shakespeare  created  Prospero.  We 
should  not  dare,  says  Montaigne,  to  meddle 
with  our  fellow-men  ;  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  an  inferior  race  ;  where  we  think  to  bring 
order,  we  bring  vice.  Prospero  takes  possession 
of  the  island  ;  he  discovers  and  uses  its 
resources  ;  he  discovers  and  uses  Caliban — he 

All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce 
Without  sweat  or  endeavour  :  treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine, 
Would  I  not  have  ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foison,  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

Tempest \  Act  ii.  Scene  i. 


202  MONTAIGNE 

does  not  torture  him.  Caliban  hates  him  as 
he  was  bound  to  hate  his  superior,  but 
Prospero  subjugates  him  —  as  he  subjugates 
Trinculo  and  Stephano,  and  the  base  con- 
spirators, and  the  very  elements — by  his  mind, 
his  vast,  creating  mind.  May  it  be  that  the 
contrast  drawn  between  Ferdinand's  noble  love 
and  his  endurance  of  Prospero's  hard  test, 
with  Caliban's  ugly  passion  for  Miranda,  is 
Shakespeare's  answer  to  Montaigne's  c  no  re- 
spect of  relationship  save  what  is  in  common'? 
At  any  rate,  it  is  to  the  disembodied  Ariel, 
the  spirit  of  imagination,  the  minister  to  his 
intellect,  that  Prospero  gives  the  best  reward 
he  has  to  give — freedom. 

Montaigne,  like  all  great  geniuses,  is  incon- 
sistent. His  conception  of  Nature  necessarily 
includes  his  practical  conception  of  natural 
ties,  apart  from  aboriginal  Edens  or  the  ideal 
example  of  the  animals.  We  might  expect  to 
find  his  general  notions  in  accordance  with 
these  instances,  but  not  at  all.  No  purely 
natural  bond  is  to  count.  *  Father  and  son,' 
he  says,  c  may  be  of  widely  different  tempera- 
ments, and  brothers  also.  This  is  my  son, 
this  is  my  parent,  but  he  is  a  surly  man  or  an 
unkind  one,  or  a  fool !  Besides,  in  proportion 
as  these  friendships  are  commanded  to  us  by 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  203 

law  and  by  natural  obligation,  so  much  the 
less  have  they  of  our  individual  choice  and 
free-will.' l  c  Voluntary  friendship,'  he  re- 
iterates, '  is  the  only  tie  worth  possessing.  The 
passion  of  love  is  nothing  beside  it — and  no 
marriage  can  be  happy  unless  imitating  it.*2 
e  A  happy  marriage,  if  such  there  be,  refuses 
the  company  of  love.'3  And  he  is  just  as 
untrue  to  Nature  in  his  comparison  of  the 
sexes :  '  I  say  that  male  and  female  are  cast  in 
the  same  mould ;  saving  for  custom  and  insti- 
tution, the  difference  between  them  is  not 
great.' 4  And  this  is  said  by  a  despiser  of 
woman  as  he  had  found  her.  But  his  incon- 
sistencies are  not  as  mysterious  as  they  look. 
They  are  due  to  the  same  cause — his  feeling 
for  La  Boetie.  It  is  the  personal  note  that 
interferes  with  his  logic  —  the  higher  strain 
in  him  which  is  speaking.  For  him,  friend- 
ship had  made  all  other  intercourse  seem  stale 
— he  would  esteem  none  but  this.  Neither 
his  wife  nor  his  daughter  had  much  chance 
with  him.  Even  had  they  been  different, 
they  would  have  found  it  hard  to  satisfy  him, 

1  Essais,  i.  28  :  «  De  1'Amitte.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  5  :  '  Sur  des  vers  de  Virgile.' 

3  Ibid. 

4  Ibid. 


204  MONTAIGNE 

for  his  natural  affections  were  the  weakest  of 
his  instincts.  Love  was  in  his  eyes  mere 
dissipation,  a  something  to  be  used  and  thrown 
away  ;  and  in  the  relations  of  the  sexes  he 
could  only  see  indiscriminate  licence — a  pre- 
destined havoc  and  warfare.  '  There  is/  he 
says,  c  a  natural  feud,  a  fray,  between  us  and 
them  [women] ;  the  closest  agreement  that 
we  have  with  them  is  none  the  less  turbulent 
and  stormy.' 1  There  he  comes  back  to  one 
of  his  true  visions  of  Nature.  He  does  not 
hold  her  up  for  imitation,  he  simply  states 
her.  And  far  from  blaming,  he  never  criticises 
her.  To  him  she  is  the  fertilising  force  of 
life,  and  must  be  accepted  altogether.  Good 
and  bad  are  not  words  in  his  vocabulary  any 
more  than  in  hers :  he  only  has  advisable  and 
inadvisable.  Judicially,  relentlessly,  disinter- 
estedly, he  passes  in  review  all  the  vices  and 
vagaries  of  vice  to  which  she  has  subjected 
mortal  man,  but  his  comments  are  no  more 
than  those  of  an  expert  who  says  what  is  safe 
and  what  is  harmful.  And  throughout  he 
never  swerves  from  his  allegiance — he  remains 
Nature's  subject,  Nature's  champion. 

His  championship  is  never  quite  so  splendid 
as  when  he  takes  arms  against  asceticism.     It 

iSy  iii.  5  :  *  Sur  des  vers  de  Virgile.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  205 

was  to  him,  one  more,  an  all-important  form 
of  arrogance  and  pedantry,  the  setting  up  of 
man's  will  against  the  gods. 

e  Nature  not  being  herself,  compels  the  mind 
to  suffer  with  the  body,'  says  Shakespeare  in 
King  Lear.  '  All  these  things,'  says  Mon- 
taigne, '  may  be  accounted  for  by  that  narrow 
seam  between  mind  and  body,  which  twain 
do  intercommunicate  their  fortunes.' l  And 
it  is  on  this  c  narrow  seam '  that  he  is  always 
dwelling.  c  As  for  me,'  he  says,  c  who  only 
deal  with  common  earth,  I  hate  this  inhuman 
wisdom  which  tries  to  make  us  scorners  and 
enemies  of  all  care  of  the  body.  In  my 
judgment,  it  is  quite  as  unjust  to  entertain  a 
dislike  of  natural  passions  as  to  embrace  them 
too  closely.' 2 

When  Montaigne  touches  upon  the  exact 
relations  of  mind  and  matter,  he  reaches  almost 
his  highest  level.  His  loathing  of  the  mischief 
the  monks  had  wrought,  of  all  hypocrisies 
and  furbelows — his  power  of  looking  Nature 
straight  in  the  face,  of  admiring  a  spade  for 
being  a  spade  —  and  his  firm  determination 
never  to  separate  spirit  from  the  senses,  give 
his  utterances  a  kind  of  intense  sanity.  He 

1  Essais,  i.  20  :  '  De  la  force  de  I'lmagination.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  13  :  'De  I'Experience.' 


206  MONTAIGNE 

proclaims  what  Rabelais  proclaimed  before 
him,  what  Browning  proclaimed  after  him, 
the  absolute  interdependence  of  body  and  soul 
— the  inability  of  either  to  live  or  work  whole- 
somely without  the  other — the  ruin  that  results 
from  their  separation.  And  in  one  passage,  at 
least,  he  allows  the  mastery  of  the  soul.  But 
that  passage  must  not  mislead  us.  Because 
Montaigne's  favourite  subject  warmed  him 
into  fervid  speech,  and  worked  upon  that 
higher  quality  which  existed  within  him,  we 
must  not  be  persuaded  to  imagine  that  his 
import  was,  like  that  of  Browning,  the  spiritual 
evolution  of  man.  Even  in  the  fine  sentences 
below,  he  is  recognising  the  soul  rather  as  the 
protector  of  the  body's  interests  than  as  the 
lord  of  her  destiny.  And  what  he  makes  for 
all  along  is  to  demonstrate  the  evil  due  to  the 
soul's  neglect  of  the  body,  not  that  which 
results  from  the  body's  neglect  of  the  soul. 
This  would  have  been  a  process  with  which 
his  common  sense  would  have  felt  sympathy, 
but  he  hardly  takes  it  into  account.  There  is, 
however,  no  need  to  do  more  than  let  him 
speak  for  himself,  to  take  a  few  out  of  the 
reiterated  utterances  that  he  has  left  us  on  the 
subject. 

*  Those  do  wrong  who  wish  to  disjoin  our 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  207 

two  great  halves,  and  isolate  them  one  from 
the  other.  They  should,  on  the  contrary,  be 
joined  and  re-united.  The  soul  must  be 
commanded  not  to  draw  aside,  to  keep  itself 
apart,  to  despise  and  desert  the  body — indeed, 
it  cannot  possibly  do  so  excepting  through 
some  ill-shaped  apish  trick.  Rather  should 
the  soul  strike  fresh  alliance  with  the  body, 
embrace  it,  cherish  it,  control  and  counsel  it, 
re-establish  it  and  bring  it  back  when  it 
swerveth.  In  short,  the  soul  should  marry 
the  body  and  serve  it  as  a  husband,  to  the 
end  that  their  property  should  not  appear  to  be 
different  and  contrary,  but  one  and  the  same.' l 
'Nature  is  a  pleasing  guide.  ...  I  seek 
out  her  track  wherever  I  go  :  we  have  blurred 
it  with  artificial  footprints.  For  what  reason 
do  we  dismember  and  tear  asunder  the  two 
parts  of  an  edifice  built  of  masonry  so  closely 
cemented  ?  Let  us  rather  re-unite  them  by 
dint  of  mutual  services  ;  let  the  spirit  awaken 
and  vivify  the  heaviness  of  the  body,  the 
body  check  and  fix  the  lightness  of  the  spirit. 
There  is  no  part  of  us  unworthy  of  our  care 
in  this  gift  which  God  hath  given  us.  To 
the  last  hair,  we  owe  Him  an  account  of  it. 
And  this  order  which  biddeth  him  administer 

1  Essais,  ii.  17  :  *  De  la  Presomption.' 


ao8  MONTAIGNE 

his  human  nature  according  to  its  estate 
is  no  order  of  discharge  ;  it  is  an  express 
commission,  simple,  very  essential,  and  the 
Creator  has  charged  us  with  it  seriously  and 
severely.' l 

c  Between  ourselves  I  have  constantly  ob- 
served that  there  are  two  things  which,  strange 
to  say,  always  go  together :  super-celestial 
feeling  and  subterranean  morals.  Such  as 
dwell  on  the  soul  apart  from  the  body  design 
to  get  beyond  themselves  and  escape  from 
humanity.  It  is  folly  ;  instead  of  transform- 
ing themselves  into  angels,  they  transform 
themselves  into  beasts.'2 

'  I  find  nothing  so  mortal  in  the  life  of  Alex- 
ander as  his  fancies  concerning  immortality.'3 

'  That  opinion  which  disdaineth  our  natural 
life  is  ridiculous,  for,  after  all,  our  life  is  our 
being,  our  all.  It  is  against  Nature  that  we 
should  despise  ourselves  and  set  ourselves  not 
to  care  about  ourselves.  This  is  a  peculiar 
malady.  No  other  creature  is  known  to  hate 
and  despise  itself ;  and  it  is  for  a  like  vanity 
that  we  desire  to  be  different  from  what  we  are.'4 

The   'different,'   the    supernatural,   was    to 

1  Essais,  iii.  13:  *  De  1'Experience.' 

2  Ibid.  3  Ibid. 

4  Essais,  ii.  3  :  « Coutume  de  1'Ile  de  Cea,' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER          209 

Montaigne  always  mere  foolishness — 'fancies 
concerning  immortality  ' — and  his  prejudice 
was  enhanced  by  his  strong  sense  of  the  unity 
of  Nature.  '  It  is  ever,'  he  says,  <  one  and  the 
same  Nature  who  rolleth  on  her  course.  He 
who  hath  thoroughly  learned  to  know  her 
estate  in  the  present  can  safely  conclude  there- 
from all  the  future  and  all  the  past.' l 

But  who,  according  to  Montaigne,  has 
'  learned  to  know  her  estate  in  the  present '  ? 
This  brings  us  to  his  attitude  towards  human 
knowledge  and  to  the  worth  which  he  set 
upon  it.  His  views  were  no  new  ones  ;  they  are 
shared  by  the  author  of  Ecclesiastes,  by  all  the 
saints  and  all  the  cynics.  They  are  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  those  of  Rabelais.  Montaigne 
disbelieved  in  intellect  as  much  as  Rabelais 
believed  in  it.  Yet  for  its  academical  pro- 
fessors, for  pundits  and  bigwigs,  Rabelais 
nourished  as  sarcastic  an  aversion  as  his 
successor.  Who  can  forget  the  law-officers 
and  the  Schoolmen  in  Pantagrue/  ?  But  he 
was  idealist  enough  to  win  through  their  fogs 
and  follies  ;  to  see  that  they  were  the  abusers 
of  knowledge,  not  its  representatives  ;  to 
apprehend,  like  Shakespeare,  the  glorious 
possibilities  of  mind.  The  concrete  Mon- 

1  Essais,ii.  12  :  '  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 
O 


210  MONTAIGNE 

taigne  judged  knowledge  too  much  by  the 
knowers,  and  the  knowers  exasperated  him. 
His  annoyance  entered  into  his  valuation  of 
man's  powers,  though  other  elements  were  there 
besides,  chief  among  them  a  large  pessimistic 
modesty  which  coloured  many  of  his  verdicts. 
Once  more  we  find  the  old  refrain.  He 
regards  presumption  and  pedantry  as  the  two 
arch-enemies  to  real  knowledge,  and  to  these 
he  seems  to  see  no  end  as  long  as  the  world 
goes  on.  He  did  not  become  a  sceptic,  he 
was  born  one,  and  so,  innocent  of  any  intel- 
lectual process,  he  gave  no  name  to  the  result 
and  was  able  to  tack  on  to  his  free-thought 
any  form  of  orthodoxy  that  he  chose. 

4  It  is  only  the  fools  who  are  certain   and 
decided/  l 

cHe  who  wishes  to  be  cured  of  ignorance 
must  confess  it.' 2 

c  We  put  out  our  arms  to  embrace  every- 
thing, but  we  only  clasp  the  wind.' 3 

c  We  condemn  all  that  seemeth  strange  to 
us  and  all  that  we  do  not  understand.' 4 

These  four   sayings    give    us    the    keynote 
of  Montaigne's  thought.       And  his    attitude 

1  Esstis,  1.26:  '  De  Institution  des  Enfants.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  1 1  :  '  Des  Boiteux.' 

8  Essais,  i.  31  :  'Des  Cannibales.' 

*  Etsais,  ii.  12  :  '  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  211 

towards  religious  services  was  significant  of 
his  scorn  of  the  human  intellect.  The  com- 
prehension of  words  could  only  harm  men 
and  sow  the  seeds  of  arrogance.  He  mistook 
mystification  for  mystery,  and  believed  it  would 
have  the  same  effect. 

c  Droll  people  '  (he  says  of  the  translators*  of 
the  Bible),  *  who  think  that  they  have  made  it 
fit  for  the  use  of  the  people  by  putting  it  into 
popular  language.  Is  it  only  because  of  the 
words  that  they  do  not  understand  all  that 
they  find  written  ?  I  could  say  more.  By 
bringing  them  this  inch  nearer  to  the  Word, 
they  have  taken  them  farther  away.'1  .  .  . 
c  Nothing  is  so  firmly  believed  as  that  which 
is  least  known.'2 

So  much  for  the  common  congregation. 
The  preachers  and  the  thinkers  had  their  turn. 

cAnd  to  these'  (pretentious  persons),  'did 
I  dare,  I  would  gladly  join  a  crowd  of  people, 
the  interpreters  and  controllers-in-ordinary  of 
the  designs  of  God,  who  profess  to  discover 
the  causes  of  every  accident  and  to  detect  in 
the  secrets  of  the  Divine  Will  the  incompre- 
hensible motives  of  His  works.  .  .  .  Hard  it 

1  Essais,  i.  56  :  c  Des  Prieres.' 

2  Essazs,  i.  32  :  '  Qu'il  faut  sobrement  sc  meler  de  juger  des 
ordonnances  divines.' 


212  MONTAIGNE 

is,  indeed,  to  bring  down  things  divine  to  be 
weighed  in  our  scales,  without  finding  that 
they  have  suffered  debasement.  .  .  .  We  must 
be  content  with  the  light  which  it  pleaseth 
the  sun  to  impart  to  us  through  its  rays. 
And  whosoever  would  lift  his  eyes  to  take 
into  himself  a  greater  draught  thereof,  let 
him  not  think  it  strange  if,  as  a  penalty  for 
his  arrogance,  he  should  lose  his  sight.'  l 

6  For  why  should  not  a  goose  speak  thus  : 
every  part  of  the  universe  concerneth  me. 
The  earth  serveth  for  me  to  walk  upon,  the 
sun  to  light  me,  the  stars  to  exhale  their 
influences  upon  me.  I  get  this  use  from  the 
winds,  that  from  the  waters  ;  there  is  nothing 
that  the  vault  of  heaven  looketh  upon  so 
favourably  as  myself.  I  am  the  darling  of 
Nature.  Is  it  not  man  who  nourisheth  me, 
and  lodgeth  me,  and  serveth  me  ?  It  is  for 
me  that  he  causeth  sowing  and  grinding. 
If  he  eateth  me,  he  also  doth  the  same  by 
his  fellow-man  ;  and  even  so  do  I  eat  the 
worms  which  kill  and  devour  him.'  5  '  We 
do  right  when  we  set  the  tightest  barriers  that 
we  can  round  the  human  mind.  In  its  studies, 


iSj  i.   32:  'Qu'il  faut  sobrement  se  meler  de  juger  des 
ordonnances  divines.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  12:'  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 


213 


as  elsewhere,  we  must  count,  we  must  regulate 
its  steps.' l 

6  Whosoever  seeketh  something,  he  cometh 
at  last  to  this  point :  either  that  he  saith  he 
hath  found  it  ;  or  that  it  cannot  be  found  ;  or 
that  it  is  still  being  sought  for.  All  philosophy 
is  divided  into  these  three  kinds.' 2  c  It  can 
with  truth  be  said  that  first  there  is  the  primal 
ABC  kind  of  ignorance  which  precedeth 
knowledge,  then  the  professional  ignorance 
which  followeth  upon  knowledge,  the  which 
this  same  knowledge  maketh  and  engendereth, 
just  as  she  maketh  and  destroyeth  the  first 
kind.' 3 

'  We  are  not,'  he  concludes,  c  as  full  of  evil 
as  of  inanity.' 4  This  admission  (reminding  us 
of  Anatole  France's  c  tender  contempt '  for  his 
kind)  is  the  utmost  measure  of  indulgence  that 
he  vouchsafes  us.  And  what  is  the  conclusion 
of  the  whole  matter  ? 

'  If  it  be  true  that  man,  alone  of  all  the 
animals,  hath  this  liberty  of  imagination, 
showeth  this  disordered  tangle  of  thoughts, 
figuring  to  him  that  which  is,  that  which  is 
not,  and  that  which  he  desireth,  whether  it  be 

1  Essazs,  ii.  12  :  'Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 

2  Ibid.  8  Essais,  i.  54:  'Des  vaines  subtilites. 
4  Essais,  i.  50:  l  De  Democritus  et  Heraclitus.' 


2i4  MONTAIGNE 

true  or  false — then  it  is  a  privilege  the  which 
he  buyeth  dear,  and  whereof  he  hath  little 
cause  to  boast.  For  from  it  there  springeth 
the  main  source  of  the  evils  which  press  upon 
him — sin,  disease,  irresolution,  agitation, 
despair.  I  repeat,  then,  that  we  have  no 
reason  to  believe  that  the  animals  do  by 
natural  and  compelling  instinct  the  same 
things  that  we  do  from  choice  and  industry. 
From  like  effects  we  ought  to  deduce  like 
faculties  .  .  .  and  so  to  confess  that  this  same 
understanding,  this  same  ground  that  we  cling 
to  as  of  our  own  peculiar  tillage,  is  also 
possessed  by  the  animals — that,  or,  indeed, 
some  better  region.  Why  should  we  imagine 
them  to  be  bound  by  natural  constraint,  we 
who  feel  no  such  effect  in  ourselves  ?  Besides 
which  ...  it  were  safer  to  leave  the  reins 
in  Nature's  hands  than  in  our  own.  It  is  the 
vanity  of  our  presumption  that  maketh  us  like 
to  owe  our  competency  to  our  own  strength, 
rather  than  to  God's  liberality.' l 

In  understanding,  then,  we  are  lower  than 
the  animals,  as  well  as  in  virtue  lower  than 
the  savages.  Is  it  only  an  encouraging  fancy 
that  here  again  Shakespeare  has  answered 
Montaigne  ?  Florio's  translation  of  the  Essays 

1  Essais,  ii.  12  :  '  Apologic  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  215 

was  published  for  the  first  time  in  1603,  and 
1603  is  the  date  to  which  the  authorities 
ascribe  the  completed  version  of  Hamlet.1 

Shakespeare,  we  know,  read  Florio  ;  what 
is  more,  he  probably  met  him,  for  Florio  was 
tutor  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  and  also 
the  friend  of  Ben  Jonson,  and  the  appearance 
of  the  Essays  in  England  must  have  been  an 
event  of  importance.  The  passage  last  quoted 
comes  out  of  the  longest  and  most  essential  of 
all  Montaigne's  Essays — the  *  Apologie  de 
Raimond  Sebond  '  —  the  confession  of  his 
own  belief,  or  disbelief.  Now  let  us  listen  to 
the  well-worn  words  of  Hamlet. 

4  What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  man !  how  noble 
in  reason  !  how  infinite  in  faculty  !  in  form 
and  moving  how  express  and  admirable  !  in 
action  how  like  an  angel !  in  apprehension 
how  like  a  god  !  the  beauty  of  the  world  ! 
the  paragon  of  animals  ! ' 

The  contrast  is  the  more  marked  that 
Hamlet,  in  the  mood  of  the  deepest  disgust 
with  life,  is  only  meditating  on  man's  glories 
to  contrast  them  with  his  mortality — with 

1  Although  it  is  pretty  certain  that  the  play  had  existed  in 
some  form  a  year  or  two  earlier,  it  is  equally  true  that  Florio' s 
book  was  entered  in  the  Stationers7  Register  for  1 599.  While 
Shakespeare  was  at  work  upon  Hamlet,  he  could  therefore 
easily  have  read  Florio  in  manuscript. 


216  MONTAIGNE 

the  end  of  'this  quintessence  of  dust.'  But 
that  does  not  affect  his  view  of  man's  possi- 
bilities. To  Shakespeare,  man  is  the  paragon 
of  the  animals  ;  to  Montaigne,  the  animal  is 
the  paragon  of  man.  Hamlet's  pessimism 
overshadows  his  life — it  is  the  pessimism  of 
disillusionment,  he  can  see  no  horizon.  Mon- 
taigne's pessimism,  born  with  him,  is  always 
cheerful ;  he  thinks  little  of  men  so  long  as 
they  amuse  him.  The  present  is  the  only  tense 
worth  having  ;  the  good  of  life  is  unattain- 
able ;  let  us  make  for  the  attainable — daily 
comfort. 

But  when  Montaigne  speaks  of  the  vanity 
of  knowledge,  he  often  uses  c  knowledge '  for 
'learning,'  and  even  the  'learned'  for  the 
learners.  What  he  means  is  that  he  regards 
that  knowledge  as  contemptible  which  packs 
the  head  with  useless  matter,  and  he  called 
most  things  useless  which  could  not  be  directly 
applied  to  daily  existence.  Thought  for 
thought's  sake  he  abhorred,  but  for  practical 
wisdom  he  had  great  reverence. 

'Simple  peasants,'  he  says,  'are  honest  folk, 
and  honest  folk,  too,  are  the  philosophers,  or 
rather  (according  to  the  utterance  of  our  day), 
they  should  not  be  called  philosophers,  but 
men  of  strong  and  lucid  natures,  enriched  by 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  217 

a  wide  study  of  the  useful  sciences.  The 
middle  folk  who  despise  the  first  stage,  the 
ignorance  of  letters,  and  have  not  got  as  far 
as  the  other  ...  are  dangerous,  inept,  impor- 
tunate ;  they  disturb  the  world.' 1 

Among  the  '  middle  folk  '  he  put  professors 
of  learning  —  pedagogues,  schoolmen,  theo- 
logians, savants.  Never  is  his  eye  more 
true,  or  his  wit  more  trenchant  than  when  he 
uses  it  to  hit  them.  c  If  you  have  mistaken 
one  of  the  Scipios  for  the  other,  what  can 
you  still  say  that  has  any  value  ?  Accord- 
ing to  them,  he  who  doth  not  know  about 
Aristotle  knoweth  nothing  about  himself/2 
And  his  sayings  are  more  than  brilliant  irony ; 
they  are  of  deep  and  serious  import.  He 
arraigns  his  victims  as  guilty  of  some  of  the 
chief  evils  of  human  existence.  '  For  the 
most  part  the  causes  of  the  troubles  of  the 
world  are  made  by  the  grammarians,3  he  says. 
c  Difficulty  is  the  coin  that  the  learned  use, 
like  conjurers,  so  that  they  may  not  reveal 
the  inanity  of  their  art — a  coin  which  human 
stupidity  easily  accepts  as  payment.'4 

Words  have  not  only  made  quarrels,  they 

1  Essais,  i.  54:  '  Des  vaines  subtilit£s.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  17  :  4De  la  Presomption .' 

3  Essais,  ii.  12  :  *  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.'       4  Ibid. 


2i8  MONTAIGNE 

have  made  traditions  ;  and  traditions  have  made 
conventional  people  who  depend  upon  others 
for  their  thoughts  and  opinions.  c  Whoso 
followeth  another,  folio weth  nothing.' l 

'We  pay  heed  to  the  opinions  and  the 
knowledge  of  others,  and  that  is  all.  We 
ought  to  make  these  things  our  own.  .  .  .  We 
lean  so  heavily  upon  the  arms  of  others  that 
we  annihilate  our  own  strength.  Do  I  wish 
to  steel  myself  against  the  fear  of  death  ?  I 
do  so  at  the  expense  of  Seneca.  Do  I  wish 
to  get  consolation  for  myself,  or  for  another  ? 
I  borrow  it  from  Cicero.  I  should  have 
drawn  it  from  myself  had  I  been  exercised  in 
the  art  of  so  doing.  I  do  not  like  this  begged 
and  borrowed  sufficiency.2 

'  We  know  how  to  say,  Cicero  speaks 
thus  ;  these  are  the  words  of  Plato  ;  these 
the  very  words  of  Aristotle.  But  we,  what 
do  we  say  of  ourselves  ?  What  are  our 
judgments  ?  What  do  we  do  ? ' 3 

'  Our  souls  only  move  on  the  credit  system, 
bound  and  constrained  by  the  wills  of  other 
men's  caprices,  enslaved  and  imprisoned  be- 
neath the  yoke  of  other  men's  teaching.  I 

1  Essais9  i.  26 :  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 

2  Essazs,  i.  25  :  *Du  Pcdantisme.' 

3  Ibid. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  219 

used  to  see,  privily,  at  Pisa,  a  worthy  man, 
but  such  an  Aristotelian  that  the  widest  of 
his  dogmas  was  this  :  that  the  test  and  rule 
of  all  solid  imaginations  and  all  truth  was 
conformity  to  the  doctrines  of  Aristotle — that 
outside  them  we  find  only  dreams  and  inanity 
— that  he  has  seen  everything  and  said  all 
that  there  is  to  say.' l 

'I  know  people  like  the  man  who,  if  I 
inquire  of  him  what  he  knoweth,  asketh  for  a 
book  that  he  may  show  me.' 2  '  What  a  tedious 
cleverness  is  purely  bookish  cleverness ! ' 3 
c  We  know  how  to  decline  virtue  even  though 
we  do  not  live  it.' 4  c  If  you  should  call  out 
concerning  one  who  passeth  in  the  street, 
"  Oh,  what  a  learned  man  !  "  and,  concerning 
another,  "  Oh,  what  a  good  man  ! "  you 
would  find  that  every  one  will  turn  their  eyes 
and  their  respect  towards  the  former.  A 
third  shouter  would  be  wanted  to  shout  out, 
"  Oh,  the  blockheads  !  "  We  eagerly  ask, 
"  Doth  he  know  Greek  or  Latin  ?  Doth  he 
write  in  verse  or  prose  ?  "  but  the  important 
matter  is  whether  he  hath  grown  wiser  or 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants/ 

2  Essais,  i.  25  :  4Du  Pedantisme.' 

8  Essats,  i.  26  :  '  DC  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 
4  Essais,  ii.  17  :  '  De  la  Presomption.' 


220  MONTAIGNE 

better,  and  the  answer  to  that  lags  behind. 
We  ought  to  ask  who  knoweth  best,  not  who 
knoweth  most.' l 

Traditions  also  make  certain  names  into 
shibboleths  and  certain  processes  into  un- 
written laws  ;  they  exalt  particular  kinds  of 
people  till — the  worst  crime  in  Montaigne's 
eyes — they  think  themselves  different  from 
les  autres. 

c  A  mind  richly  stored  with  knowledge  of 
many  things  doth  not  therefore  become  more 
alive  or  more  awake,  and  a  common  mind  of 
coarse  fibre  can  harbour,  without  refining 
itself,  the  same  views  and  judgments  as  the 
best  minds  that  the  earth  has  borne.' 2 

'One  sees  the  peasant  and  the  cobbler  go 
their  ways  candidly  and  simply,  talking  of 
what  they  know,  while  these  others  because 
they  want  to  puff  and  be-police  themselves 
with  the  learning  that  floats  about  in  the 
shallows  of  their  brains,  flounder  along 
without  a  pause,  stumbling,  and  clogging 
themselves.'3  'I  see  men  .  .  .  who  pontificate 
even  on  their  hearths  and  in  their  own  insides, 
dragging  the  pomp  of  office  into  their  very 

1  Essais,  i.  25  :  '  Du  Pedantisme.' 

2  Ibid.  8  Ibid. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  221 


s 


dressing-closets.  I  cannot  teach  them  to 
distinguish  the  cappings  and  bowings  given 
to  themselves,  from  those  that  are  due  to  their 
functions  or  their  suite  or  their  mules.  The 
mayor  and  Montaigne  have  always  been  two 
persons — and  most  clearly  divided.' l 

e  It  is  for  the  stupid  to  look  down  from  a 
platform  upon  other  men — for  ever  to  return 
from  the  fight,  self-satisfied  and  full  of  vain- 
glory.'2 That  is  the  note  to  which  Mon- 
taigne always  returns  —  one  could  quote  on 
continuously.  The  intellect  is  nowhere  as  an 
asset  in  life  ;  it  deceives  us  as  to  our  real 
nature  ;  it  makes  us  aspire  to  be  better  than 
we  can  be,  and  this  sows  in  us  the  seed  of 
pride  and  discontent,  preventing  us,  too,  from 
getting  the  enjoyment  that  we  might  get 
from  our  actual  condition  :  the  natural  ease, 
the  comfortable  pleasures,  which  the  poor  and 
stupid  know  how  to  appreciate.  It  may  be 
argued  that  Montaigne's  practice  was  different 
from  his  preaching,  that  he  passed  his  days 
among  his  books,  reading  poetry  and  philo- 
sophy. But  he  had  a  case.  He  might  have 
answered  us  something  after  this  fashion  :  '  I 
read  only  to  please  myself,  not  for  profit  or 

1  Essais,  iii.  I  o  :  '  De  menager  sa  volonte. ' 
'2  Essais,  iii.  8  :  4  De  1'Art  de  conferer.' 


222  MONTAIGNE 

for  any  pretence  of  learning.  The  use  to 
which  I  put  my  studies  is  a  practical  one — 
the  formation  of  character  for  the  exigences 
of  life  as  we  find  it.  That  use  I  respect, 
and,  for  that  reason,  my  favourite  and  most 
thumbed  volumes  are  the  Lives  of  Plutarch 
and  the  works  of  Seneca.'  He  could  not  be 
quite  consistent,  he  was  too  big  for  that,  but 
in  the  main  his  answer  would  be  a  true  one. 
c  Learn  to  live/  is  the  only  lesson  he  cares  to 
give  us  —  not  to  live  nobly,  but  to  live 
adaptably,  to  live  cheerfully. 

'  The  great,  the  glorious  masterpiece  achiev- 
able by  man  is  to  live  a  propos.  It  is  the  small 
souls,  buried  below  the  weight  of  their  busi- 
ness, who  are  not  able  to  throw  it  off,  to  leave 
it  there  and  then  resume  it.' * 

And  it  is  these  '  dmelettes*  stunted  and 
sickly,  who  are  Montaigne's  aversion,  be- 
cause they  do  not  know  how  to  live.  They 
belong  to  two  sorts — to  the  fools  and  to  the 
pedants ;  to  the  fools,  because  c  nothing  irritates 
me  so  much  in  foolishness  as  the  fact  that  it  is 
more  pleased  with  itself  than  any  reason  could 
reasonably  be';2  to  the  pedants,  for  all  the 


1  Essats,  iii.  13  :  4De  TExperience.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  8  :  «  De  1'Art  dc  conferer.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  223 

causes  he    has    already   given   us  —  with   one 
added  : 

'  To  how  many  human  beings  in  my  time 
has  a  cold  and  taciturn  countenance  acted  as 
a  pass  to  a  reputation  for  prudence  and 
capacity.' 1 

And  what  is  the  best  school  in  which  to 
learn  how  to  live  ?  Life,  replies  Montaigne, 
is  the  only  school.  '  Man  gets  wonderful 
light  for  his  judgment  by  frequenting  the 
world  of  men.  We  are  all  confined  and 
huddled  up  within  ourselves,  and  cut  our 
vision  short  according  to  the  length  of  our 
noses.'2  Before  we  learn  anything  else,  we 
must  learn  to  get  rid  of  self-importance. 
c  In  this  school  of  intercourse  with  men,  I 
have  often  noticed  this  vice — that  instead  of 
gaining  information  about  others,  we  labour 
only  to  give  it  about  ourselves,  and  take  more 
pains  to  make  profit  out  of  our  old  wares  than 
to  acquire  new  ones  ....  Let  us  fly  from  this 
puerile  ambition  to  appear  to  be  more  subtle 
than  our  kind,  merely  so  as  to  seem  different 
from  them  and  win  reputation  by  our 
fastidiousness  and  our  whim-whams.' 3 

1  Essais,  Hi.  8  :  'De  1'Art  de  conferer.'     Compare  La  Roche- 
foucauld :    '  La    gravite   est    un  mystere   du    corps   qui   cache 
souvent  1'absence  dc  1'esprit.' 

2  Essais,  i.  26  :  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.'  3  Ibid. 


224  MONTAIGNE 

When  we  have  mastered  this  elementary 
science  of  modesty,  taught  always  by  Mon- 
taigne through  the  head  and  not  the  heart — 
for  the  heart  is  a  factor  he  leaves  out — we 
shall  have  a  chance  of  gaining  other  know- 
ledge. Our  minds  once  empty  of  all  learning, 
we  shall  be  fit  to  get  wisdom. 

c  As  plants  are  choked  by  too  much  moisture, 
and  lamps  by  too  much  oil,  so  the  action  of 
the  mind  is  choked  by  too  much  stuff  of 
study,  the  which  so  blocks  it  up  that  ...  it 
loses  the  faculty  of  mixing.  .  .  .  But  without 
this,  all  is  different,  for  the  more  the  mind  is 
filled,  the  more  space  it  possesseth.' l 

And  when  the  mind  fills  and  widens,  what 
is  the  final  fruit  we  gather  ? 

c  There  hath  happened  to  the  people  of  real 
knowledge  what  happeneth  to  ears  of  corn. 
As  long  as  they  are  empty,  they  go  on  growing 
high  and  lifting  up  their  heads  straight  and 
proud  ;  but  when  they  are  full,  and  swelled 
with  ripened  grain,  they  begin  to  humble 
themselves  and  to  bow  their  spikes.  Like- 
wise men,  having  tried  all  things,  sounded  all 
things,  and  having  found  in  this  heap  of 
science  nothing  solid  and  massive,  nothing, 
indeed,  but  vanity,  altogether  renounce  their 

1  Essais,  i.  25  :  *Du  Pedantisme.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  225 

presumption  and  recognise  their  natural  con- 
dition.' l 

Humility  is  their  harvest  —  intellectual 
humility,  which  equips  them  for  the  task  of 
living  sanely.  But  oftenest  they  do  not  get 
this  art  till  long  experience  has  imparted  it. 
c  We  are  taught  to  live  when  life  is  past/  says 
Montaigne — yet  c  a  child  when  it  first  leaveth 
its  nurse  is  much  more  capable  of  learning  this 
lesson  than  of  learning  to  read  or  write.' 2 

But  it  is  never  too  late  to  begin,  as  it  is 
never  too  early.  '  We  may  at  all  times  con- 
tinue to  study,  but  not  to  sit  in  school,' 3  he 
says,  he  who  had  sat  as  short  a  time  in  school 
as  was  possible.  Nevertheless,  education  was 
one  of  the  subjects  on  which  he  had  thought 
most,  and  about  which  he  had  written  one 
of  his  fullest  and  finest  essays,  De  F  Institution 
des  ILnfants.  It  was  dedicated  to  Madame  de 
Grammont,  for  the  child  that  was  to  be  born, 
and  enforces,  as  we  might  expect,  a  bold 
programme,  at  least  two  hundred  years  ahead 
of  its  day.  It  is  easy  from  the  foregoing 
quotations  to  understand  what  Montaigne's 
final  aim  would  be  in  this  direction.  Any 

1  Essais,  u.  12  :  *  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 

2  Essais,  i.  26  :  '  De  PInstitution  des  Enfants.' 

3  Essa/s,  ii.  28  :  '  Toutes  choscs  ont  leur  saison.' 

P 


226  MONTAIGNE 

child  about  whom  he  concerned  himself  was 
to  have  no  special  education  in  this  study  or 
that,  but  he  was  to  be  trained  as  an  efficient 
human  being.  No  pedant,  no  man  of  jargon, 
was  to  come  near  him  ;  he  was  to  be  taught 
by  men  of  the  world  how  to  observe  and  to 
perceive,  and,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  chosen 
tutors,  he  was  to  enter  the  University  of  Life. 
'  Now  for  this  apprenticeship,  everything 
we  chance  to  see  serveth  us  as  an  all-sufficient 
book  ;  the  malice  of  a  page,  the  folly  of  a 
footman,  a  topic  at  table,  all  these  make  so 
much  new  matter  for  experience.  .  .  .  And 
he  [the  lad  who  is  being  educated]  will  be 
told  that,  when  he  is  in  company,  he  must 
have  his  eyes  everywhere  at  once.  Generally 
the  best  seats  at  the  dinner-table  are  seized,  I 
find,  by  people  of  inferior  intelligence  .  .  .  and 
I  have  watched  men  sitting  at  the  high  end 
of  the  table  talking  on  about  the  beauty  of  a 
hanging,  or  the  taste  of  the  Mafooisie,  and 
missing  excellent  stories  at  the  lower  end. 
He  should  sound  the  depths  of  every  one 
he  meeteth.  Bullock-breeder,  stone-mason, 
passer-by — he  must  get  something  from  each 
and  all,  and  borrow  from  every  one  according 
to  his  wares,  for  there  is  nothing  that  doth 
not  come  in  useful  for  a  household  ;  the  very 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  227 

follies  and  foibles  of  others  will  serve  him  for 
instruction.  ...  A  closet,  a  garden,  the  table, 
his  bed,  solitude,  society,  morning,  evening — 
all  hours  will  be  one  to  him,  every  place  will 
be  to  him  a  study.' l 

We  cannot  but  feel  that  young  Shakespeare 
— keen  to  act  in  the  fray,  as  well  as  to  look  on 
and  make  his  profit — would  have  plucked  more 
of  the  heart  from  the  bullock-breeder  than 
Montaigne  with  his  busy  curiosity.  But  the 
knowledge  that  comes  of  sympathy  was  not 
given  to  him,  nor  did  he  desire  it.  And  he 
never  recommends  it  to  old  or  young.  The 
young,  however,  are  to  have  the  wish  to  please. 

Thus  much  he  says  for  what  might  be 
called  the  University  training  of  youth.  But 
the  years  of  childhood  and  early  boyhood 
come  before  this,  and  Montaigne  does  not 
leave  these  aside.  Nor  does  he  wish,  as  we 
might  logically  expect,  that  these  years  should 
be  passed  in  pure  ignorance.  Far  from  it. 
He  becomes  delightfully  personal  and  incon- 
sistent. His  own  training,  he  tells  us,  was 
never  thorough  ;  he  remembered  nothing  but 
'  a  vague  and  shapeless  countenance  of  know- 
ledge :  a  little  of  everything  and  nothing  of 
anything,  a  /afranfaise.'  And  he  proceeds  to 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  *De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 


228  MONTAIGNE 

draw  up  a  captivating  scheme  of  education. 
It  is  not  so  illogical  either.  For  when  we 
look  into  it  more  closely,  we  shall  find  that 
his  plans  all  help  his  final  end  and  bear  upon 
the  conduct  of  life. 

The  New  Learning,  the  re-discovery  of  the 
classics,  had  given  fresh  impetus  to  education, 
and  educational  treatises  were  in  vogue.  The 
Humanists  were  very  fond  of  writing  them, 
and  dull  enough  they  usually  are.  Happily 
Rabelais  wrote  one  too  :  his  letter  of  counsel 
to  Gargantua,  on  the  bringing-up  of  Prince 
Pantagruel,  is  one  of  the  noblest  discourses 
that  has  ever  been  printed  on  the  subject.  It 
is  nobler  than  the  utterances  of  Montaigne, 
because  it  is  warmed  by  fire  from  the  heart, 
not  only  by  light  from  the  head.  Yet 
different  roads  make  for  the  same  goals.  No 
one  who  has  read  it  is  likely  to  forget  Rabe- 
lais' glorious  morning  scamper  of  wit — his 
dissertation,  his  exuberant  tilting  against  the 
Sorbonne  and  the  Schoolmen.  One  he  is  also 
with  Montaigne  in  his  splendid  pursuit  of 
sincerity — his  insistence  that,  from  the  outset, 
human  beings  must  learn  to  think  for  them- 
selves. But  where  Rabelais  trumpets,  Mon- 
taigne speaks.  We  are  not  deafened  by  noise 
and  by  laughter  ;  we  can  hear,  and  hear  well. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  229 

And  where  Rabelais  tells  a  fable,  Montaigne 
has  no  disguise.  He  speaks  to  us  direct, 
without  distraction.  Besides,  if  Rabelais  goes 
deeper,  Montaigne  is  more  modern,  not  only 
in  his  ideas,  but  in  the  way  he  expresses  them. 
In  his  conceptions  of  indulgent  discipline,  of 
scientific  methods,  of  knowledge  without 
tears,  he  is  centuries  in  front  of  himself: 
nearer  to  Maria  Edgeworth  and  Goethe's  ideal 
school  in  Wilhelm  Meister^  than  to  Rabelais 
and  Pantagruel  ;  near,  too,  in  his  notions  of 
hygiene,  of  simple  life  and  hardy  habits, 
to  the  Entile  of  Rousseau.  Montaigne  really 
went  beyond  them  all — not,  perhaps,  in 
the  things  he  made  for  first,  but  in  giving 
them  the  first  place.  Rousseau,  Goethe, 
Miss  Edgeworth,  made  for  the  same  ends, 
but  these  were  involved  and  hidden  in  other 
issues  :  with  Rousseau  in  the  emotions  ;  with 
Goethe  in  moral  processes  ;  with  Miss  Edge- 
worth  in  the  dialectics  of  schoolroom  reason. 
Montaigne  had  no  wrappings. 

'  There  is  no  help  for  it,'  he  says  ;  '  whoso 
desireth  for  certain  to  make  an  efficient  man, 
he  must  in  nowise  spare  him  in  his  youth. 
He  must  often  shock  professors  and  all  their 
rules.' *  '  Let  divers  judgments  be  set  before 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  *  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 


230  MONTAIGNE 

him  [the  child] ;  he  will  choose,  if  he  can. 
If  not,  he  will  remain  in  doubt.' l  These  two 
adages  are  the  central  truths  of  Montaigne's 
system.  But  he  also  gives  two  negative 
ordinances.  The  teacher  must,  above  all, 
avoid  scholasticism,  he  must  avoid  severity. 
*I  disapprove,'  writes  Montaigne,  'of  any 
violence  in  the  education  of  a  tender  spirit, 
the  which  one  traineth  up  to  honour  and  to 
liberty.  There  is  I  know  not  what  of 
servility  in  restriction  and  in  rigour,  and  I 
believe  that  what  cannot  be  wrought  by 
reason  and  good  sense  can  never  be  brought 
about  by  force.  ...  I  should  always  try  by 
sweet-tempered  converse  to  nourish  in  my 
children  a  living  friendship  and  unfeigned  kind- 
ness towards  myself  ;  and  these  one  gaineth 
easily  from  well-born  natures.'2  'There 
is  nothing  like  tickling  the  appetite  and  the 
affection  [for  learning] ;  otherwise  one  only 
creates  donkeys  loaded  with  books.  They  are 
well  thrashed  to  keep  their  little  panniers  full 
of  knowledge.  But  to  get  knowledge  truly, 
we  must  not  only  give  her  lodging  within  us, 
we  must  marry  her.' 3 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 

2  Essais,  ii.  8  :  '  De  1'Affection  des  peres  aux  enfants.' 

3  Essais,  i.  26 :  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  231 

Spare  the  rod  and  the  child  will  not  be 
spoilt — and  so  back  again  to  the  arch-enemy. 
Pedagogues  alone  have  made  learning  disagree- 
able. Montaigne  remembers  his  own  child- 
hood. 'They  never  ceased  to  scream  in  one's 
ears  as  if  they  were  pouring  something  into  a 
barrel  and  one's  task  was  only  to  repeat 
what  was  told  one.  I  should  like  to  see 
all  this  kind  of  thing  mended,  and  to  make 
a  teacher  begin  at  once  according  to  the 
reach  of  the  mind  he  has  to  handle — to 
put  a  child  on  the  alert,  impelling  him  to 
taste  and  discern  things  and  to  choose  from 
among  them  for  himself,  sometimes  opening 
a  way  for  him,  sometimes  letting  him  find  it. 
I  do  not  wish  the  teacher  alone  to  talk  and  to 
invent  ;  I  want  him  to  hear  his  disciple  talk 
in  his  turn.  ...  It  is  the  sign  of  a  high 
soul,  and  a  strong  one,  to  know  how  to 
condescend  to  the  ways  of  children  and  to 
guide  them.  One's  step  is  more  at  home 
on  one's  own  hillside  than  in  the  valley 
below.' l 

The  perfect  teacher,  then,  must  know  how  to 
be  a  child.  Montaigne,  as  far  as  we  know,  was 
the  first  person  to  discover  that  truth.  And 
the  next  important  thing  to  grasp  is  how  to 

1  Essais,  i.  26  :  *  DC  PInstitution  des  Enfants.' 


232  MONTAIGNE 

make  lessons  living.  Wisdom,  he  says,  should 
have  a  smiling  face. 

'  It  is  very  wrong  to  paint  her  as  inaccessible 
to  children,  of  a  shrewish  countenance,  bushy- 
eyebrowed  and  terrible.  Who  has  given  her 
this  false,  pale,  hideous  mask  ?  There  is 
nothing  gayer,  or  more  gallant,  or  more  frolic — 
I  was  almost  going  to  say  rollicking.  For  she 
preacheth  nought  but  feasting  and  good  times.'1 

Wisdom  must  be  taught  by  means  of  history. 
c  Here  I  mean  to  include  (and  that  chiefly) 
such  men  as  only  live  because  books  remember 
them.  By  means  of  history,  he  [the  teacher] 
will  deal  with  these  great  spirits  of  the  best  ages. 
It  is,  if  you  like,  a  vain  study  ;  but  if  you  like, 
also,  it  is  a  study  the  which  beareth  priceless 
fruit.  .  . .  And  may  the  guide  remember  whither 
his  work  really  tendeth  !  Nor  must  he  take 
such  pains  to  impress  upon  his  pupil  the  date 
of  the  ruin  of  Carthage,  as  the  manner  of  man 
that  Hannibal  was,  or  Scipio.'2  If  this  be 
done,  the  child  (or,  as  Montaigne  points  out, 
about  one  child  in  a  hundred)  will  grow  wise. 
He  may  forget  ;  the  body  of  fact  may  decay  ; 
but  the  soul  of  knowledge  will  remain,  and  all 
else  is  worthless. 

'  For  if  his  spirit  gaineth  no  better  balance, 

tSj  i.  26  :  '  De  1'Institution  des  Enfants.'  2  Ibid. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 


233 


if  his  judgment  be  no  saner,  I  had  as  lief  that 
my  scholar  had  passed  his  time  in  playing  at 
tennis — at  least  his  body  would  then  be  the 
brisker.  For  he  who  should  bring  back  a  full 
soul  from  learning  doth  in  this  way  but^  bring 
it  back  stuffed  ;  he  hath  but  swollen  it  instead 
of  making  it  larger.' l  Pretences,  indeed, 
weaken  the  mind,  as  too  many  clothes  weaken 
the  body.  Sincerity  is  strength.  And  to 
fashion  character,  to  hammer  it  into  shape,  is 
the  one  important  goal  of  the  educator.  'I 
would  rather  forge  my  soul  than  furnish  it,' 2 
Montaigne  wrote  of  himself — he  wished  young 
spirits  to  be  forged  before  they  were  furnished. 
The  sources  of  help  which  Montaigne  used 
for  this  forging  of  his  soul  do  not  seem  far  to 
seek.  For  he  found  them  chiefly  in  himself. 
The  sense  of  religion  was  not  natural  to  him. 
And  yet  here,  in  a  sense,  he  is  puzzling.  His 
confession  of  faith,  '  L'Apologie  de  Raimond 
Sebond,'  which  makes  a  pamphlet  in  itself, 
does  not  at  first  sight  fit  in  with  the  rest  of 
him.  But  it  is  only  at  first  sight.  If  we 
probe  farther  into  his  meaning,  we  shall  find 
that  in  the  main  he  is  the  same.  And  what 
he  is,  the  passages  from  the  Essays  have 

1  Essais,  i.  25  :  '  Du  Pedantisme.' 

2  Essais,  in.  3  :  *  De  trois  Commerces.' 


234  MONTAIGNE 

already  shown  us.  At  his  best  he  is  a  Pagan 
sceptic  —  a  happy  sceptic  —  at  his  worst  a 
colloquial  opportunist,  naked  and  rather  un- 
ashamed. 

'I  am  not,'  he  said,  'subject  to  these 
intimate  and  piercing  pledge-givings  and 
mortgagings  of  my  soul.  ...  I  would 
follow  the  good  cause  to  the  stake,  and 
the  fire,  but  not  into  it  if  I  could  help 
it.  Let  Montaigne  leap  into  the  abyss  if 
there  be  need,  but  if  there  be  no  need  I  shall 
be  most  beholden  to  Fortune  if  he  can  get 
off.1  .  .  . 

'  I  say  nothing  to  one  that  at  the  right 
hour  I  cannot  say  to  the  other,  only  with  the 
accent  a  little  changed.' 2 

And  if  our  convictions  do  not  much  matter, 
we  must  also  be  indulgent  towards  our  actions. 
Too  much  has  been  asked  of  us  by  our  Creator, 
Who  has  not  provided  us  with  adequate 
means  to  carry  out  His  will.  '  It  is  to  be 
wished  that  there  were  more  proportion 
between  the  commandment  and  our  power 
to  obey.  It  seemeth  unjust  to  set  up  for  us 
a  goal  that  we  cannot  reach.  .  .  .  How  can 
we  strive  to  be  good  according  to  God's  law 

1  Essais,  iii.  i  :  '  DC  1'Utile  et  de  1'Honnete.' 

2  Ibid. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  235 

when  we  are  not  able  to  be  good  according 
to  our  own  ?  Human  wisdom  hath  never  yet 
compassed  the  duties  it  prescribed  to  itself; 
and  even  had  it  done  so,  it  would  then 
prescribe  fresh  duties  beyond,  to  which  it 
would  aspire.  So  hostile  to  consistency  is 
our  nature  !  Is  it,  after  all,  so  unrighteous 
of  man  not  to  achieve  what  is  impossible  ? ' l 

The  best  we  can  do  is  to  follow  the  best 
that  is  in  ourselves. 

'  People,  more  especially  such  as  we  are, 
who  live  a  private  life  only  known  to 
ourselves,  should  have  an  abiding  standard 
written  within,  by  the  which  we  should  test 
all  our  actions.  And  according  thereunto, 
we  should  at  one  moment  fondle,  and  at 
another  chasten  ourselves.  I  have  my  own 
laws  and  my  own  law-courts,  the  which  will 
judge  of  me  ;  and  I  address  myself  to  them 
rather  than  elsewhere.  I  may  restrain  my 
deeds  according  to  other  people,  but  I  only 
understand  them  according  to  myself.' 2 

He  understood  them  so  well  that  he  found 
that  he  had  small  use  for  repentance — of  the 
ordinary  kind  —  nor,  considering  our  moral 
helplessness,  did  he  think  repentance  desir- 

1  Essais,  iii.  9  :  *  De  la  Vanite.' 

2  EssatSy  iii.  2  :  '  Du  Repentir/ 


236  MONTAIGNE 

able.  c  Forgive,'  he  wrote,  c  my  repeating 
what  I  have  so  often  said — that  I  seldom 
repent,  and  that  my  conscience  is  satisfied 
with  itself,  not  as  with  the  conscience  either 
of  an  angel,  or  of  a  horse,  but  as  with  the 
conscience  of  a  human  man.' 1 

c  My  actions  are  ruled  by  and  suited  to 
what  I  am  and  to  my  actual  condition.  I 
can  d<X  no  better — and  repentance  has  really 
no  concern  with  such  matters  as  lie  outside 
our  moral  strength.' 2  It  is  words  such  as 
these  which  filled  Pascal,  Montaigne's  great 
antagonist,  with  bitter  enmity.  Montaigne 
hated  conviction  of  sin  as  a  poisonous  dis- 
turber of  the  peace,  invented  by  presumptuous 
priests  and  purists.  To  Pascal  it  was  the 
breath  of  life  —  a  terrible  life  and  a  fiery 
breath  blowing  from  the  wilderness,  but  sent 
by  God  as  the  only  scourge  strong  enough 
to  drive  us  to  Him.  Without  the  conviction 
of  sin,  Pascal  could  not  have  believed  in 
virtue.  To  Montaigne  it  made  virtue  im- 
possible. To  Pascal  natural  virtue  was  as 
bad  as  sin,  while  Montaigne  thought  it  the 
only  virtue  worth  having.  And  yet  this  does 
not  mean  that  Montaigne  altogether  discarded 
repentance — he  reserved  it.  The  offences  he 

1  Essaisy  Hi.  2  :  *  Du  Repentir.'  2  Ibid. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  237 

thought  worthy  of  it  are  few  ;  but  when  he 
repented,  it  must  be  whole  repentance  ;  no 
mere  word  fossilised  by  frequent  use,  no  mere 
plumage  of  remorse,  but  a  repentance  like 
that  of  the  Psalmist. 

c  I  know  no  superficial,  moderate  repentance 
— no  mere  formality.  It  must  touch  me  at  every 
point  before  I  give  it  the  name.  Then  let  it 
burn  into  my  marrow  ;  let  my  sufferings  pierce 
me  as  deep  and  as  universally  as  the  eye  of  God/1 

In  the  case  of  Montaigne,  the  sense  of  folly 
took  the  place  of  the  sense  of  sin — as  it  does  for 
so  many  ironical  thinkers.  Sins  of  belief  did 
not  exist  for  him,  only  the  follies  of  believers. 
c  After  all,'  he  says,  c  it  is  setting  a  high  value 
upon  our  conjectures  to  have  a  man  roasted 
alive  for  them.'2  'If  truth,  like  falsehood, 
had  only  one  countenance,  we  should  stand  on 
clearer  ground.  For  we  should  take  the 
opposite  of  what  the  liar  says  as  a  certainty. 
But  the  reverse  side  of  truth  has  a  hundred 
thousand  faces  and  a  boundless  field.' 3 

No  worse  stab  than  this  denial  of  the  fixity 
of  falsehood  and  of  truth  was  given  by 
Montaigne  to  the  creed  of  his  successor. 

1  Essais,  iii.  2  :  *  Du  Repentir.' 

2  Essais,  iii.  1 1  :  '  Des  Boiteux.' 

3  Essais,  i.  9  :  '  Des  Menteurs.' 


238  MONTAIGNE 

Pascal,  too,  had  stumbled  and  groped  among 
the  shifting  sands  of  thought — had  stumbled, 
and  almost  sunk.  That  was  the  great  gulf  be- 
tween them.  Pascal  had  wandered  despairingly 
where  Montaigne  had  strolled  agreeably ;  and 
where  Montaigne,  the  Hedonist,  watched  the 
horizon  disappear  into  the  sea  with  no  more 
painful  sensation  than  an  active  and  impartial 
curiosity,  Pascal,  the  sufferer,  felt  his  whole 
happiness  at  stake,  and  knowing  that  the  waves 
would  else  devour  him,  he  clung  to  the  one 
vessel  that  was,  it  seemed  to  him,  strong 
enough  to  weather  the  ocean — the  vessel  of 
mystery  and  authority,  the  vessel  of  the  Church. 
Montaigne,  we  shall  see,  had  his  place  in 
the  same  ship,  but  for  other  reasons.  For  as 
far  as  his  real  faith  was  concerned,  his  ideas 
were  but  those  of  a  Pagan  who  happened  to 
be  born  a  Catholic.  And  this  applies  even  to 
his  finer  utterances — to  those,  for  instance, 
upon  death,  a  subject  which  nearly  always 
lifted  him  to  a  higher  plane.  'The  present- 
ment of  death  is  the  presentment  of  liberty  ; 
whoso  hath  learned  to  die  hath  unlearned 
servitude.' l  '  For  that  God  giveth  us  the 
leisure  to  order  our  flitting,  let  us  prepare  for 
the  same.  Let  us  roll  up  our  baggage  and 

1  Essais,  i.  20:  '  Que  philosopher  c'est  apprendre  &  mourir.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  239 

take  leave  of  the  company  in  good  time.  .  .  . 
We  must  loosen  strong  obligations  and  hence- 
forth we  may  love  here  and  love  there,  but 
we  must  only  wed  ourselves.' l  '  Earth,  air, 
fire  and  water — all  the  component  parts  of 
this  my  edifice — are  no  more  the  instruments 
of  life  than  they  are  of  death.  Why  dost  thou 
fear  thy  last  day  ?  .  .  .  The  last  step  doth  not 
make  weariness,  it  only  declareth  it.  All  days 
travel  towards  death  :  the  last  arriveth.'  2  '  It 
is  an  action  full  of  reason  and  of  piety  to  take 
example  from  the  very  humanity  of  Jesus 
Christ.  Now  he  ended  his  life  at  three-and- 
thirty  years  old.  The  greatest  man — simply 
man — Alexander,  also  died  at  this  age.'3 

Montaigne's  human  dignity  was  not  dis- 
turbed by  any  thought  of  what  dreams  might 
come.  To  discuss  them  was  to  him  but  one 
more  exercise  of  human  presumption.  And 
in  any  form  of  personal  continuity  he  dis- 
believed. 

'  If  the  pleasures,'  he  says,  '  that  you 
promise  us  in  another  life  are  such  as 
those  that  I  have  felt  here  below,  then  they 
have  nothing  in  common  with  infinity.  Sup- 

1  Essais,  \.  39  :  'De  la  Solitude.' 

2  Essais,  i.  20 :  '  Que  philosopher  c'est  appendre  a  mourir.' 
*  Ibid. 


240  MONTAIGNE 

posing  all  my  five  natural  senses  were  over- 
powered by  enjoyment,  and  this  my  soul 
were  possessed  by  all  contentments  it  could 
hope  for  and  desire,  yet  we  know  what  even 
its  utmost  cometh  to.  It  is  as  nothing.  For 
in  all  this  there  may  be  something  of  me,  but 
there  is  nothing  divine.  .  .  .  All  mortal  satis- 
faction is  mortal.  As  for  the  recognition  of 
parents,  children,  friends,  if  it  could  touch  or 
charm  us  in  the  other  world — if  we  still  set 
any  store  by  such  a  pleasure — we  should  still 
be  lying  among  the  flesh-pots  of  things  finite. 
We  cannot  worthily  conceive  the  greatness  of 
these  high  and  God-like  promises  if  we  con- 
ceive them  at  all  ;  to  imagine  them  adequately, 
we  must  imagine  them  unimaginable,  un- 
speakable, incomprehensible  —  perfectly  dif- 
erent  from  those  of  our  miserable  experience 
.  .  .  and  if  to  make  us  fit  for  them,  our  being 
must  be  changed  and  re -moulded,  as  thou 
thinkest,  O  Plato,  by  thy  purifications,  then 
the  change  would  be  so  vast  and  universal 
that,  according  to  the  teaching  of  physics,  it 
would  no  longer  be  ourselves.' l 

So  spoke  Montaigne,  and  yet  entertained  no 
doubt  that  he  was  a  good  Catholic.  He  had,  as 
we  said,  his  place  in  the  same  ship  as  Pascal, 

1  Essais,  ii.  12  :  '  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  241 

for  on  all  this  Pyrrhonism — this,  we  were 
going  to  say,  heterodoxy,  but  we  should  rather 
say  no-doxy — Montaigne  confidently  grafted 
orthodoxy.  Since  truth  and  falsehood  are  not 
fixed,  fix  them  :  let  men  believe  like  their 
forefathers.  Since  reason  has  failed,  substitute 
authority. 

'  Our  faith  is  not  our  acquisition.  ...  It  is 
neither  through  our  intellect  nor  our  under- 
standing that  we  have  received  our  religion  ; 
it  is  through  authority  and  by  an  external 
command.  The  weakness  of  our  judgment 
helpeth  us  here  better  than  its  strength,  and 
blindness  more  than  clear  vision.  ...  It  is  not 
surprising  that  our  natural  and  earthly  powers 
cannot  conceive  a  knowledge  supernatural  and 
celestial.  Let  us  bring  thereunto  nothing  of 
ourselves  save  obedience  and  submission.' ] 

'  We  see  every  day  that  when  human  nature 
swerveth,  however  slightly,  from  the  main 
road,  and  wandereth  from  the  beaten  track 
traced  out  by  the  Church,  in  an  instant  it 
misseth  its  turnings  and  loseth  its  way,  it 
groweth  confused  and  entangleth  itself,  drift- 
ing hither  and  thither,  aimless,  unbridled, 
in  this  vast  sea  of  tossing  waves,  the  sea 
of  opinion.  As  soon  as  it  departeth  from 

1  Essais,  ii.  12  :  'Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 
Q 


242  MONTAIGNE 

the  great  high  road,  it  goeth  on,  dwind- 
ling and  scattering  itself  on  many  different 
paths.' l 

'"What  shall  I  choose?"  "What  you 
like,  provided  that  you  do  choose."  That  is  a 
foolish  answer,  yet  it  seemeth  that  it  is  the 
answer  of  all  dogma — the  which  alloweth  us 
in  no  wise  to  be  ignorant  about  our  ignorance.'2 
'  Thus  hath  Divine  Majesty  in  some  fashion 
allowed  Himself  for  our  sakes  to  be  circum- 
scribed by  bodily  limitations :  His  supernatural 
sacraments  are  but  signs  of  our  earthly  con- 
dition ;  adoration  of  Him  expresseth  itself  by 
ritual,  by  words  made  tangible  to  sense.  For 
it  is  man  who  prayeth  and  believeth.'3 

'  Far  it  is  from  honouring  Him  Who 
made  us,  to  honour  Him  whom  we  have 
made.'  4  '  Those  things  which  come  down  to 
us  from  heaven  they  alone  have  the  right  and 
authority  to  persuade  us,  alone  the  mark  of 
Truth  :  the  which,  also,  we  behold  not  with 
our  eyes,  neither  receive  it  by  any  means  of 
ours.  This  great  and  holy  image  could  not 
abide  in  so  mean  a  dwelling-place,  if  God  had 
not  prepared  it  for  this  purpose.'5  'To 

1  Essais,  ii.  12:  '  Apologie  de  Raimond  Sebond.' 

2  Ibid.  3  Ibid. 
*  Ibid.                                           5  Ibid, 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  243 

make  the  handful  greater  than  the  hand  .  .  . 
to  desire  to  stride  farther  than  the  stretch  of 
our  legs  alloweth  —  this  is  impossible  and 
monstrous.  And  so  is  it  to  imagine  that  man 
should  climb  above  himself  and  above  human- 
ity ;  for  he  can  only  see  with  his  eyes  and 
seize  as  much  as  his  grasp  permitteth.  He 
will  only  rise  if  God,  by  grace  alone, 
lendeth  him  a  hand  ;  he  will  only  rise  by  re- 
nouncing his  own  means  and  letting  himself 
be  uplifted  by  the  means  of  heaven,  and  nought 
but  heaven.  It  is  for  our  Christian  faith, 
not  for  the  virtue  of  the  Stoic,  to  lay  claim 
to  this  divine,  this  miraculous  transformation.'1 

And  yet  side  by  side  with  this  confession  of 
Montaigne's  strange  belief,  we  find,  asserted 
with  equal  force,  more  passages  than  one  like 
the  following  :  '  I  love  the  virtue  which  is 
not  made  by  laws  and  religions,  but  only 
perfected  and  authorised  thereby,  the  virtue 
which  feeleth  that  it  hath  within  it  where- 
withal to  sustain  itself  without  aid  ;  the 
virtue  born  in  us  of  its  own  roots,  by  the  seed 
of  universal  reason — a  seed  which  is  embedded 
in  every  man  who  hath  not  become  unnatural.'2 

At  first  the  one  quotation  seems  to  contra- 

1  Essais,  ii.  12  :  '  Apologie  dc  Raimond  Sebond,' 

2  Essais,  iii.  iz  ;  '  D^  la  Physionomie/ 


244  MONTAIGNE 

diet  the  other,  but  if  we  penetrate  the  meaning 
of  either,  we  shall  see  that  this  is  not  so. 
Our  goodness  is  to  be  no  exotic  power  born 
of  mysticism,  but  a  solid  force  regulated  by 
the  actual  strength  of  our  muscle.  Faith  is 
to  be  its  adjunct,  not  its  source,  for  faith  is  to 
deal  with  matters  of  belief  and  not  of  action. 
In  matters  of  belief  we  can  effect  nothing 
except  by  the  grace  of  God,  but  in  matters  of 
action  we  have  that  within  us  'which  sus- 
taineth  itself.' 

The  doctrine  of  original  sin  was  not  for 
Montaigne.  His  orthodoxy  was  not  the  fruit 
of  any  spiritual  need.  Like  Pascal,  he  accepted 
the  Church  on  the  ground  of  all  or  nothing. 
The  futility  of  intellect,  the  arrogance  of  man 
and  of  his  reason,  were  tenets  common  to  both. 
But  they  arrived  at  the  same  destination  by 
opposite  roads :  Montaigne  through  the  mind 
that  he  professed  to  scorn,  Pascal  through  the 
moral  sense.  This,  unconsciously  to  Pascal, 
was  perhaps  the  cause  of  their  worst  difference. 
For  there  is  no  such  enmity  as  that  which 
comes  of  reaching  the  same  end  by  different 
means.  Any  open  divergence  of  belief  is 
more  easily  forgiven.  Sainte  -  Beuve  has 
written  once  and  for  all  upon  the  direct  con- 
flict between  the  two  adverse  creeds — that  of 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  245 

Montaigne's  naturalism  and  that  of  Pascal's 
fervent  asceticism.  It  would  be  presumptuous 
to  re-discuss  what  has  been  already  perfectly 
said.  But  there  is  a  still  stronger  hostility 
between  them.  Not  that  between  the  abstract 
and  logical  theologian,  and  the  concrete  and 
logic-hating  discourser,  but  a  still  more  signal 
opposition,  an  irreconcilable  division  :  that 
between  the  strenuous  sufferer  and  the  dilet- 
tante ;  between  the  man  who  has  laboured  for 
his  patrimony  and  the  man  who  disowns  his 
father  while  he  inherits  his  father's  fortune. 

If  it  be  true  that  the  faith  of  either  man 
discards  reason,  it  is  yet  truer  that  the  word 
faith  has  a  different  meaning  for  each  :  that 
to  one  it  is  a  refuge  from  doubt  ;  to  the  other 
a  screen  for  scepticism — not  only  to  the 
world  but  to  himself;  to  the  one  a  haven 
from  life,  to  the  other  a  convenient  shelf  on 
which  to  lay  mystery  and  keep  it  from 
disturbing  existence. 

c  Man  is  so  great,'  says  Pascal,  c  that  his 
greatness  appears  even  in  the  fact  that  he 
knows  he  is  miserable.  A  tree  does  not 
know  it  is  miserable.  True  is  it  that  to 
know  oneself  miserable  is  misery,  but  it  is 
also  greatness.  In  this  fashion  all  man's 
miseries  prove  his  greatness.  They  are 


246  MONTAIGNE 

miseries  of  the  Grand  Seigneur^  the  miseries 
of  a  king  dethroned.' 

6  As  for  me/  says  Montaigne,  '  I  love  life 
and  I  cultivate  it  as  I  find  it — just  as  it 
hath  pleased  God  to  let  it  be.  I  gladly  and 
gratefully  accept  what  Nature  hath  done  for 
me  ;  I  am  pleased — I  congratulate  myself.' l 
Suffering  is  your  brevet  of  divinity — take  it 
as  your  one  chance  of  salvation,  says  Pascal. 
Flee  from  all  pain,  it  is  unnatural  not  to  do 
so,  says  Montaigne — behave  well,  be  cheerful, 
and  keep  your  sanity,  it  is  as  much  as  you 
can  manage.  Such,  rightly  speaking,  are  the 
summaries  of  these  two  men's  creeds.  A 
world  lies  between  them. 

And  yet  no  comparison  suffices  to  epitomise 
Montaigne.  Concrete  though  he  be,  he  can 
elude  us.  And  every  now  and  then  he  still 
baffles  us  by  the  glimpses  he  gives  us  of  that 
other  higher  self,  of  that  strain  which  may 
have  come  from  his  blood,  or  from  elsewhere 
— who  shall  tell  ?  Whatever  the  cause,  it 
remains  a  fact  that  the  man  who  cultivated 
self-supporting  virtue  was  the  same  man  who 
said — and  bade  others  say — the  Lord's  Prayer 
often  in  the  day  ;  who  believed  in  prayer — 
prayer,  he  says,  before  offering  which,  evil 

1  Essais,  iii.  13:'  De  1'Experience.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  247 

passions  must  be  banished  from  the  breast. 
Nor  dare  we  be  so  irreverent  as  to  pray  for 
all  things,  or  be  guilty  of  c  the  error  which 
maketh  us  resort  to  God  in  each  one  of  our 
designs  and  undertakings,  and  call  on  Him 
for  every  sort  of  need,  whenever  our  weakness 
wanteth  help,  without  considering  whether 
the  occasion  be  just  or  unjust.'1  But  the 
prayer  taught  by  Christ  sufficed  entirely  for 
his  needs. 

*  I  know  not,'  he  says,  '  if  I  deceive  myself, 
but  sith  that  by  ...  divine  goodness  a  certain 
way  of  prayer  has  been  prescribed  to  us, 
dictated  word  for  word  by  the  mouth  of  God, 
it  hath  ever  seemed  to  me  that  we  ought  to 
make  the  use  thereof  more  ordinary  than  it  is. 
...  At  sitting  down  to  table  and  at  leaving  it, 
when  we  rise  and  when  we  sleep,  and  before 
the  performance  of  those  private  actions  for 
the  which  it  is  customary  to  put  up  prayers,  I 
desire  that  Christians  should  use  the  Pater- 
noster, if  not  alone  by  itself,  at  least  always.  .  .  . 
That  prayer  should  have  this  privilege — that 
it  should  constantly  be  upon  the  lips  of  the 
people  ;  for  sure  it  is  that  it  saith  all  that 
is  needful,  and  that  it  fitteth  every  occa- 
sion. It  is  the  one  prayer  that  I  always 

1  Ess<iis,  i.  56  :  *  Des  Prieres.' 


248  MONTAIGNE 

pray,  and  I  reiterate  it   rather   than  make   a 
change.' l 

Montaigne  is  as  sincere  when  he  says  this 
as  he  is  in  all  his  other  utterances.  No  thinker 
has  ever  been  sincerer,  or  has  woven  thought 
of  such  complex,  many-coloured  threads.  It 
would  be  a  paradoxical  task  to  go  through  all 
the  parts  that  he  played:  he,  Michel  de 
Montaigne,  the  Stoic  and  the  Hedonist  ;  the 
orthodox  heretic,  and  the  Pagan  haunted  by 
Christian  prayer  ;  the  enemy  of  the  preacher 
and  the  ascetic,  who  thought  he  knew  better 
than  his  neighbour  ;  the  over-civilised  believer 
in  the  savage  'so  simple  that  he  under- 
standeth  not  one  word  of  the  religion  he  so  care- 
fully observeth' ;  2  the  intellect-hater,  who  lived 
upon  the  intellect ;  the  satirist  of  presumption, 
who  said  'the  most  of  men's  vocations  are  far- 
cical' ;  the  artist,  who  knew  the  secret  that '  all 
experience  must  be  passed  through  the  alembic'; 
the  moralist,  who  did  his  best  to  canonise 
selfishness  and  raise  it  to  the  rank  of  self- 
possession  ;  the  opportunist,  who  proclaimed 
that  '  there  are  legitimate  vices  '  ;  the  philo- 
sopher, who  taught  mental  symmetry,  and  in- 
dulgence, and  a  large  human  dignity.  All  this 
Montaigne  was  and  much  more,  and  perhaps 

1  Essais,  i.  56  :  4Des  Priercs.'  2  Ibid. 


ESSAIS    DE   M.    DE   MONTA. 
ont  eu  plufieurs  rarcs  rcflemblances  de  fortune.Mais  la  beau- 
|  $, ^e, &  la  gloirc  delamort  de  cettuy-cy,a  la  veue  de  Paris>&  dc 
^-fonRoy,pourfeflfcruice,contre  fcs  plus  proches^ala  tcftc 
\^d'vnc  armee  vi&orieufe  par  fa  conduitte,  &"cl'vn  coup  dc 
V  $^nuin,en  fi  extreme  vicillcffe,  me  fcmblemeritcrqu'on  lalo~ 
J^ge entre les remercables cuenemes de  jnon  tempsJLes autrcs 
ilvertus  ont  eu  peu,ou  point  dc  mile  cr^eifi&Hftps :  mais  la  vail- 
'^  lance,clle  eft  deuenuc  populaircpar  noz  guerres  ciuiles:  &  en 


s  $  cette  partie,il  fc  trouue  parmy  nous,dcs  amcs  fermes,iufques 
^^.laperfed:ion:&:  en  grand  nobre,fi  que  Jc  triage  en  eft  im- 
J$3oflible  a  faire.  Voyia  tout ce  que  i'ay  connui  iufques  a  cette 
^ncure ,  d'cxtraordinaire  grandeur  &non  commune. 

Dudementlr.          G  H  A  ».    XVIII. 

O  i  R  E  mais  on  me  .dira,quc  ce  dcflcin  dc  fe  feruir  de 
fby  ma{rnefipourfubicd:aefcrire,feroitexcufablea 
dcs  hommes  rarcs  &  fameux,qui  par  leur  repu ration 
ntdonequelqucdefirdelcurcognoiflancc.  Ileitcer- 
in;  ie  laduoiic;  &  f§ay  bien  que  pour  voir  vn  homme  dc  la 
^commuhe^^on^eincqu'vnartifanleuclcsyeux  defa  be- 
*  ^fbngne:  l^Pi|pJr  voir  vn  perfonnage  grand  &  fignalcjarri- 
^sucrcn  vn*e  vi^Ss  ouuroirs  &les  boutiques  s'abandonnenr. 
^Hl  meflietatput  autrede  fe  faire  cognoiilre/ju'a  celuy  qui.a 
|  dequoy  fefaircimiter;&  duquel  la  vie  &  les  opinions  peuuet 
^fcruif^'eKemple  g^dc  patron.  Ca:far  &Xenopho  onteude- 
^iquoy  fonder  &  fermir  leur  narration.,  en  la  grandeur  de  leurs 
^§w9s,c6meenvncbazejnafi«r&folidc.  Ainfifont  afou- 
haitcr  les  papiers  iournaux  du  grand  Alexatidreiles  commen- 
taircsqu'Auguftcrt?Sylla,Brutus,&  autres  auoyent  laifle  de 
leers  geftes.  Dc  telles  gen^on  ay  me  &:  cftudic  les  figures ,  en 
cuyure  mcfmcs  &:'eri  picrrc.Cettcjcmoftrancc  eil  tres-vraic, 
mai?  elle  ne  me  rouche  quebien  p^u; 

No* 


PAGE  FROM  MONTAIGNE'S  ESSAYS  IN  THE  ORIGINAL  EDITION  OF  1588  AT 
BORDEAUX,  SHOWING  HIS  ANNOTATION  TO  CHAP,  xvn,  BOOK  n,  "DE  LA 
PRESOMPTION,"  AND  THE  CROSS  BELOW  AT  THE  PLACE  WHERE  IN  THE 
EDITION  OF  1595  THE  PRAISE  OF  MDLLE.  DE  GOURNAY  WAS  INSERTED. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  249 

the  greatest  feat  that  he  achieved  was  to 
reconcile  these  conflicting  strands,  crossing  and 
recrossing  one  another  ;  to  make  them  into 
an  active  force  possessing  a  unity — not  a  unity 
of  expression,  but  of  life. 

What  is  it  in  the  end  that  Montaigne 
stands  for  ?  No  man  who  has  read  his  diatribes 
against  human  conceit  and  inability  would 
presume  to  try  and  fully  answer  such  a 
question.  His  attitude  of  mind  cannot  be 
compressed  into  any  final  form  of  words  :  his 
scepticism  and  his  irony  make  the  light  and 
atmosphere  which  bathed  his  every  thought. 
But  certain  of  those  thoughts  stand  out 
positively  and  focus  the  rest.  And  to  give 
these  central  truths  in  his  own  words  is  the 
only  way  to  write  Montaigne's  epitaph. 

'  We  are  never  at  home — we  are  always  out 
and  abroad.' l 

'  The  greatest  thing  in  the  world  is  to  know 
how  to  belong  to  oneself.'' 

'  The  friendship  that  each  man  oweth  to 
himself  ...  a  beneficent,  well-controlled  friend- 
ship, profitable  and  pleasant — he  who  compre- 
hendeth  and  practiseth  the  duties  thereof  .  .  . 
hath  reached  the  summit  of  human  wisdom 

1  Essais,  i.  3  :  t  Nos  affections  nous  emportent  an  dela  de  nous.' 

2  Essais,  i.  39  :  *  De  la  Solitude.' 


250  MONTAIGNE 

and  happiness.  .  .  .  He  who  in  nowise  liveth 
for  others  hardly  knoweth  how  to  live  for 
himself.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  whoso  abandoneth 
of  his  own  accord  a  gay  and  wealthy  life  in 
order  to  serve  others,  maketh,  to  my  mind, 
an  evil  and  unnatural  decision.'1 

'  Save  for  thee,  O  man,  .  .  .  every  creature 
studieth  itself  first,  and  hath,  according  to  its 
needs,  due  limits  to  its  work  and  its  desires. 
There  is  not  a  single  one  so  empty  and  so 
poverty-stricken  as  thou,  and  yet  thou  under- 
standest  the  universe.  Thou  art  the  investi- 
gator without  information  ;  the  judge  without 
power  of  judging — and,  when  all  is  said, 
thou  art  the  buffoon  of  the  farce/  2 

'  We  do  not  live,  we  only  exist,  if  we  hold 
ourselves  bound  and  driven  by  necessity  to 
follow  one  course  alone.  The  finest  spirits 
are  those  that  show  the  largest  choice,  the 
greatest  suppleness.' 3 

*  Those  who  abandon  the  common  offices  of 
life,  and  renounce  the  infinite  number  of  thorny 
rules — the  laws  which  bear  so  many  aspects — 
which  restrict  a  man  of  nice  honour  as  a 
citizen,  are,  to  my  mind,  a  good  riddance, 

1  Essais,  \\\.  10 :  '  De  menager  sa  volonteY 

2  Essais,  iii.  9  :  *  De  la  Vanite.5 

3  Essais,  iii.  3  :  '  DC  trois  Commerces.' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  251 

whatever  private  discipline  they  may  be  enjoin- 
ing upon  themselves.  For  what  they  do  is, 
as  it  were,  to  die  in  order  to  flee  from  the 
trouble  of  living  well.  They  may  have 
another  kind  of  worth  ;  but  the  worth  that 
comes  of  grappling  with  difficulty  hath  never 
seemed  to  me  to  be  theirs.  Nor  when  we 
are  beset,  is  there  aught,  so  I  believe,  to  be 
done,  transcending  this  :  that  we  should  stand 
holding  ourselves  upright  amid  the  thronging 
floods  of  the  world.' l 

This  is  his  answer  to  all  exceptional  people 
who  act  exceptionally  :  to  martyrs  more 
especially,  to  Puritans,  most  heroes,  and  to 
all  ascetics.  It  is  his  great  plea  for  common 
life  and  for  the  obvious  —  his  indictment 
of  intellectual  arrogance. 

Had  Montaigne  been  able  to  believe  that 
the  faults  that  he  attacks  in  these  adages  were 
lessened  in  the  world  by  his  blows,  he  would 
have  died  the  happier.  But  he  did  not 
believe  it.  Presumption,  insincerity,  one- 
sidedness,  the  lack  of  self-rule  and  self-respect, 
these  were  the  foes — assuredly  no  windmills 
— of  this  most  unquixotic  of  assailers.  And 
presumption,  as  we  know,  included  for  him 
much  of  what  we  hold  most  precious  :  the 

1  Essats,  ii.  33  :  *  L'Histoire  de  Spurina.' 


252  MONTAIGNE 

hardly-won  riches  of  the  mind  ;  the  dreams 
and  aspirations  of  the  soul.  But  he  fought 
modestly,  and  he  fought  disinterestedly.  He 
never  sought  to  be  the  hero  of  the  field  ;  he 
made  for  neither  loot  nor  laurels. 

c  Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well  and  overthrown 
more  than  your  enemies.'  These  are  the 
thanks  that  posterity  ought  to  tender  him, 
and  with  truth. 

Montaigne's  wisdom  is  the  heritage  he  left 
to  the  world.  Yet  wisdom  is  not  the  secret 
of  his  power,  that  mysterious  power  which 
has  stirred  men  of  such  different  casts  of  mind 
for  more  than  three  hundred  years,  which  has 
influenced,  indeed,  the  leading  minds  of  every 
age.  For  from  the  beginning  Montaigne  was 
the  exception  to  the  rule — he  was  a  successful 
genius,  recognised  at  once  and  for  always. 
He  has  suffered  no  eclipse,  he  has  always  lived 
in  the  full  sunlight  of  prosperity.  It  was  as  if 
he  had  ordered  his  own  career,  and,  snapping 
his  fingers  in  the  face  of  destiny,  had  escaped 
all  the  sufferings  that  genius  brings.  Shake- 
speare, Bacon,  Henri  iv.,  Pascal,  Voltaire, 
Pope,  Rousseau,  Montesquieu — these  are  only 
a  few  of  the  spirits  whom  he  affected  :  the 
four  last-named  Frenchmen  very  strongly. 
Some  thinkers  went  beyond  him  in  his  own 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  253 

line.  His  opponents  were  no  less  moulded  by 
his  hand.  Many  disliked  him,  none  remained 
unmoved  by  him. 

No  one  could  say,  as  it  has  been  said  of 
Rousseau,  that  three-quarters  of  his  power 
lay  in  his  style.  Montaigne's  style  is  vital — 
it  is  easy,  coloured,  racy  of  his  soil,  collo- 
quial, yet  perfect  in  its  dignity.  He  was  the 
first  author  in  France,  perhaps  in  any  country, 
who  dared  to  talk  to  his  readers  from  an  arm- 
chair. But  no  slipshod  gown  and  slippers  for 
him  ;  he  is  always  well  dressed,  and  spick  and 
span  in  the  spotless  linen  that  he  loved.  His 
manners  charm  us — they  make  us  feel  at  home 
and  yet  always  in  fine  company,  they  are  inti- 
mate without  being  familiar.  His  is  a  style 
which  gives  us  appetite  ;  which  greatly  adds 
to  our  enjoyment.  It  does  not  cause  it.  He 
had  no  need  of  rhythm,  and  more  use  for 
strength  than  for  beauty.  There  is  not  about 
Montaigne's  words  that  final  magic  which 
compels  our  submission,  apart  from  the  sense 
that  they  convey.  His  secret  lay  in  something 
that  went  deeper  than  his  gift  of  expression. 

It  lay  in  force  not  in  charm,  this  spell  which 
makes  us  watch  him,  whether  we  will  or  no — 
it  is  often  no  ;  which  captivates  us  while  we 
almost  hate  him  ;  which  startles  even  those 


254  MONTAIGNE 

of  us  who  love  him  ;  which  holds  and  haunts 
us  almost  painfully.  For  he  who  has  read 
Montaigne  is,  if  he  be  candid,  never  quite  the 
same  man  again  ;  while  he  thinks  that  he  is 
only  being  gossiped  with,  he  has  had  his 
outlook  changed.  The  landscape  is  different. 
Certain  patches  that  were  covered  up  are  laid 
bare  ;  the  undergrowth  is  trodden  down  ;  the 
lights  and  shadows  have  shifted.  Why  should 
this  be  ?  Can  we  discover  ? 

After  all,  what  is  Montaigne  doing  while 
we  watch  him,  half-aghast  and  half-enthralled  ? 
He  is  doing  the  impossible.  Like  some  tiger- 
charmer,  he  is  playing  with  the  wild  beast, 
Nature.  He  has  not  only  tamed  her,  or 
accomplished  a  feat  in  her  den.  He  is  getting 
on  well  with  her  ;  he  can  live  with  her,  face 
to  face.  Fascinated,  repelled,  she  looks  at 
him  ;  and  fascinated,  repelled,  we  look  at  her 
coerced  by  Montaigne's  will.  For  this  same 
Nature  is  no  stranger  to  us  ;  is  she  not  the 
wild  beast  that  lurks  in  each  of  us — sleeping 
in  some,  in  most  hidden,  and  dreaded  by  all  ? 
We  know  she  is  there,  we  have  always  known 
it,  but  by  a  tacit  freemasonry  we  do  not 
breathe  the  fact  to  one  another.  Like 
children,  we  feel  that  if  we  do  the  bogey 
may  leap  out  on  us — and  then  ?  But  here 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  255 

is  Montaigne  unconcernedly  sporting  with 
her,  caressing  her,  treating  her  as  a  familiar. 
How  can  we  not  stand  amazed  ?  This  is  a 
matter  of  personal  import.  If  Nature  is  to 
be  treated  as  no  monster,  but  as  a  recognised 
inmate  of  the  house,  what  about  our  laws 
and  traditions  ?  What  becomes  of  accepted 
moralities  ?  If  we  test  them,  how  many 
will  remain  f  how  much  of  the  fabric  will 
crumble  ?  Small  wonder  that  Montaigne 
possesses  us,  that  we  are  dominated  by  his 
thought.  We  are  all  involved  in  the  issue. 

It  would  be  a  task  of  absorbing  interest  to 
compare  Montaigne's  attitude  towards  Nature 
with  that  of  his  great  contemporary,  Bacon. 
To  Bacon  she  was  no  comrade  for  daily  inter- 
course :  rather  he  wished  to  make  her  his 
slave,  the  minister  to  his  intellectual  needs,  a 
mine  in  which  to  dig  for  knowledge.  But  if 
Montaigne  had  wanted  a  living  example  to 
prove  his  thesis — the  moral  ruin  that  comes 
of  dependence  on  the  intellect,  on  the  aspira- 
tions and  ambitions  of  the  mind,  he  might 
have  pointed  to  Lord  Verulam.  '  Here/  he 
might  have  said,  cis  the  man  who  thought 
himself  different  from  les  autres. '  Bacon 
wrote  loftily  and  lived  dishonourably ;  Mon- 
taigne lived  honourably  and  wrote  what,  if  it 


256  MONTAIGNE 

was  not  low,  was  at  least  below  the  level  of 
his  life. 

The  close  of  that  life  was  not  the  close  alone 
of  his  existence.  With  Michel  de  Montaigne 
died  a  century.  And  with  Michel  de  Mon- 
taigne there  began  a  new  age  which  has  not 
ended  yet. 

For  Montaigne,  like  most  great  thinkers 
living  in  the  last  years  of  a  great  period,  was 
a  man  of  two  tenses :  he  c  looked  before  and 
after.'  He  summed  up  the  expiring  Renais- 
sance— its  war  against  priestcraft  and  monasti- 
cism,  its  splendour  of  emancipation,  its 
almost  hectic  love  of  the  classics,  its  generous 
assertion  of  human  dignity;  and  he  fore- 
shadowed the  far  future — its  naturalism,  its 
rejection  of  romance,  its  fervent  scientific 
curiosity,  its  familiar  ease  of  demeanour. 

The  types  of  both  past  and  future  could 
appeal  to  Montaigne  to  justify  them. 
Catherine  de'  Medici,  the  epitome  of  the 
Renaissance,  might  have  quoted  him,  chapter 
and  verse,  as  the  author  of  her  moral  indiffer- 
ence, her  inaction,  her  scorn  of  principles,  her 
cult  of  the  doctrine  of  expediency.  But  with 
equal  justice — and  perhaps  with  deeper  signifi- 
cance— that  most  modern  spirit,  Henri  iv. 
could  have  called  himself  Montaigne's  disciple. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  257 

His  tolerance,  based  on  human  wisdom,  not 
on  conviction;  his  human  sympathies  which 
destroyed  conventionalities ;  his  dislike  of  pur- 
poseless cruelty;  his  critical  mind,  accepting 
truth  as  relative  ;  more  than  all,  his  ironic 
humour,  which  played  around  his  life  and 
affected  all  he  did — his  public  policy,  his 
private  morals — these  qualities  are  redolent 
of  the  Essays. 

Montaigne  was  even  more  of  a  modern  than 
he  was  a  man  of  the  Renaissance.  He  belongs 
first  and  foremost  to  the  future  ;  his  relation 
to  it  lay  deeper  than  his  relation  to  the  past. 
And  it  is  of  the  future  that  we  think  as  we 
turn  the  last  page  of  his  book.  We  greet  the 
new  day,  and  we  take  our  leave  of  the  old, 
with  the  name  of  Michel  de  Montaigne  upon 
our  lips. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

§  i.  TEXT.  Montaigne  published  the  first  two  books 
of  his  Essais  in  1580  :  Les  Essais  de  messire  Michel,  seigneur 
de  Montaigne ,  Livres  premier  et  second.  Bourdeaus,  par 
Simon  Millanges,  1580,  sm.  8vo  [Grenville,  2344].  Other 
editions  of  these  two  books  appeared,  Bordeaux,  1582  ;  Paris, 
1587.  A  so-called  '  fifth  '  edition  of  Les  Essais,  augmented 
by  a  third  book  and  six  hundred  additions  to  the  first  two 
books,  was  given  to  the  world  by  Montaigne  after  his  return 
from  his  travels:  Paris,  Abel'  1'Angelier,  1588,  4to.  This 
was  the  last  edition  published  during  the  essayist's  lifetime. 
In  a  sense,  therefore,  it  affords  a  more  authentic  text  than 
any  other,  and  we  shall  refer  to  it  as  text  A.  The  1580  text 
was  reissued  by  Dezeimeris  et  Barckhausen  at  Bordeaux, 
2  vols.  8vo,  1874  (with  1582  and  1587  variants).  Rein- 
hold  Dezeimeris  has  written  several  learned  works  on  the 
text  of  Montaigne.  The  1588  text  is  reproduced  (with 
most  of  the  1595  addenda  as  footnotes)  by  Mothau  and 
Jouaust  in  their  seven-volume  edition  of  1886-89. 

Before  his  death  in  1592  Montaigne  left  two  copies  of 
the  latest  edition  of  the  Essais  (1588),  with  numerous  and 
diverse  annotations.  One  of  these,  which  forms  the  basis 
of  the  Bordeaux  text,  and  which  we  may  designate  text  B, 
was  given  by  the  Montaigne  family  to  the  convent  of 
Feuillants  at  Bordeaux,  where  the  essayist  was  buried.  In 
1792,  when  the  convent  was  sacked,  this  was  removed  into 
the  municipal  library  at  Bordeaux,  and  it  furnished  the 
material  of  the  not  very  accurate  reprint  published  by 
Naigeon  at  Paris  in  1802  (Didot,  4  vols.,  8vo).  The  text 
is  difficult,  as  the  printed  pages  have  been  slightly  cropped 
by  the  binder  here  and  there,  while  the  interpolations  are 
often  almost  illegible.  The  municipality  have  now  given 

259 


260     MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE 

their  attention  to  the  matter,  and  have  entrusted  the  work 
of  re-interpretation  to  M.  Fortunat  Strowski,  whose  superb 
edition,  crowned  by  the  French  Academy,  and  now 
approaching  completion,  has  formed  the  basis  of  the  present 
study  (thus,  in  referring  to  the  Essays  in  Book  I.,  the 
numbering l  of  the  Bordeaux  Edition  has  been  followed), 
and  promises  to  be  that  of  the  received  text  of  the  future. 
That  place  hitherto  has  been  occupied  by 

The  text  furnished  by  the  second  copy,  with  annotations, 
found  in  Montaigne's  library.  The  original  (now  lost)  was 
entrusted  by  the  widow  to  Montaigne's  fille  d'alliance, 
Marie  de  Gournay.  She  inserted  all  the  interlineations, 
and,  after  submitting  her  work  to  Pierre  de  Brach,  who 
supplied  yet  further  additions  (probably  from  the  Bordeaux 
or  B  text),  brought  out  the  fullest  version  of  the  Essais 
that  had  yet  seen  the  light  (Paris,  folio,  1595).  This  text 
may  be  designated  C  ;  the  additions  are  authentic  Mon- 
taigne marginalia,  but  they  sometimes  confuse  the  text, 
and  it  is  more  than  doubtful  if  the  author  had  the  inten- 
tion of  incorporating  them  as  they  stand. 

With  its  faults,  this  text  has  formed  the  basis  of  the 
best-known  and  most  elaborate  editions  of  the  Essais  : 
those  of  J.  V.  Le  Clerc  (Paris,  Lefevre,  5  vols.,  8vo,  1826- 
28),  Charles  Louandre  (Paris,  Charpentier,  4  vols.,  I2mo, 
1854),  and  MM.  Courbet  et  Royer  (Paris,  Lemerre,  4 
vols.,  8vo,  1872-77).  All  these  derive  from  text  C.  The 
desideratum  by  Montaigne  students  at  present — and  now 
that  M.  Strowski's  work  is  accessible  it  ought  soon  to  be 
realised — is  a  careful  reissue  of  text  A  (1588),  with  a 
variorum  apparatus  embodying  the  additions  and  altera- 
tions of  texts  B  and  C. 

The  journal  de  Voyage  of  Montaigne  in  1580-81  was  dis- 
covered, 1769-70,  in  an  attic  of  the  Chateau  de  Montaigne 
in  the  form  of  a  Manuscript  of  178  folios  (lacking  the  first 
leaf),  by  a  Perigordian  canon  named  Prunis.  This  fortunate 
priest  took  it  to  Paris,  where  it  was  edited  by  M.  de 
Querlon  in  1774.  Its  authenticity  has  been  fully  con- 
firmed, and  its  importance  has  been  progressively  estimated 
by  all  Montaigne  scholars  (new  edition  by  A.  d'Ancona, 

1  No.  40  in  Le  Clerc  is  No.  14  in  Strowski. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE     261 

Citta  di  Castello,  1895  ;  English  translation  by  W.  G. 
Waters,  1903  ;  with  Introduction,  table  of  proper  names, 
and  version  of  Italian  portions  of  text,  by  Louis  Lautrey, 
I906).1 

§  2.  ENGLISH  TRANSLATIONS.  The  two,  both  well- 
known,  translations  of  the  Essays  are  those  by  John  Florio 
and  Charles  Cotton,  respectively  the  Italian  tutor  to 
James  i.'s  Queen  Consort,  and  the  poet  who  was  the  friend 
of  Izaak  Walton.  The  Essayes  written  in  French  by  Michael, 
Lord  of  Montaigne  .  .  .  Done  irAo  English  by  John  Florio, 
appeared  first  in  1603,  again  in  1613,  and  in  1632.  Florio, 
though  by  general  consent  a  very  flowery  usher  to  his 
Lord  of  Montaigne,  still  holds  the  field,  and  is  represented 
to-day  by  three  serviceable  editions — Nutt's  Tudor  Trans- 
lation of  1 892  ;  Dent's  Temple  Classics'  edition  in  six  small 
volumes  ;  and  the  three-volume  edition  published  by  Grant 
Richards,  1908-9,  with  an  'Introductory  Essay'  by 
Thomas  Seccombe.  Charles  Cotton's  version,  more  ac- 
curate as  a  whole,  but  uneven,  and  certainly  less  '  resolute ' 
than  Florio's,  was  first  published  in  1685  (3r(*  ed.,  I?11  : 
ed.  W.  Hazlitt  the  second,  with  Bibliog.,  1842  and  1845  ; 
revised  by  W.  C.  Hazlitt,  with  Letters  and  Travels  added, 
in  a  very  useful  composite  volume,  with  a  Life  built  up  like 
a  mosaic  from  the  Essays,  1889,  and,  4  vols.,  1902). 

§  3.  MONOGRAPHS.  Studies  of  Montaigne  have  done 
much  to  elucidate  difficult  points,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  Pascal's  criticisms  and  Emerson's,  those  of  most  value 
have  appeared  in  France  and  England  within  the  last 
forty  years.  Those  most  in  evidence  are  here  enumer- 
ated in  chronological  order,  commencing  with  J.  B. 
Biot's  essay,  Montaigne,  of  1812.  Emerson's  fine 
estimate  in  Representative  Men,  1850,  has  hardly  been 
surpassed.  Alphonse  Griin's  Vie  Publique  de  Montaigne, 
1855,  contains  valuable  letters.  Bayle  St.  John's  Mon- 
taigne the  Essayist  of  1858  is  one  of  the  first  attempts  to 
familiarise  Montaigne  easily  to  English  readers.  It  was 

1  See  Times,  8th  January  1904,  and  Chambrun  de  Rosemont's  Recits 
et  Impressions  de  Voyage  au  1 6me  siecle. 


262     MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE 

followed  in  1878  by  W.  Lucas  Collins's  brightly  written 
Montaigne  (in  Foreign  Classics  for  English  Readers).  But 
a  majority  of  the  best  equipped  books  are  recent,  such  as 
Th.  Malvezin's  M.  de  Montaigne^  Son  Origine  et  sa  familley 
1875  and  1889;  Petit  de  Julleville's  masterly  Extraits 
(numerous  editions),  and  study  in  Hist.  Litteraire ;  F. 
Hemon's  Montaigne  (1892)  ;  Faguet's  careful  appreciation 
in  his  Seizieme  Siecle  of  1894;  Pater's  elaborate  tesselation 
in  Gaston  Latour^  1896;  Lanusse's  critical  essay  in  the 
Classiques  Populaires^  1895  ;  Miss  Lowndes's  scholarly 
Biographical  Study  of  1898;  Stapfer's  lucid  and  illuminat- 
ing 'Montaigne'  in  Les  Grands  Ecrivains^  1895,  following 
his  book  on  Montaigne's  Family  and  Friends,  which  was 
surpassed  in  a  measure  by  Paul  Bonnefon's  Montaigne  et 
ses  Amis  of  1898,  an  expansion  of  this  same  writer's 
delightful  Montaigne  rhomme  et  fceuvre  of  1893.  Edme 
Champion's  helpful  and  suggestive  Introduction  aux  Essais 
(following  Vernier)  appeared  in  1900,  and  the  new  century 
has  started  well  with  the  admirable  monograph  by  Professor 
Dowden  (1905,  Lippincott's  French  Men  of  Letters), 
which  covers  the  field,  and  the  more  technical  studies  of 
Professor  Lanson  and  Fortunat  Strowski.  We  can  merely 
refer  'here  to  the  essays  by  Sainte-Beuve,  Langlais,  Ruel, 
Bimbenet,  Jeudy,  Leveaux,  Gauthiez,  Compayre  (there  is  ' 
quite  a  small  literature  on  Montaigne's  education),  Betz, 
Joseph  Neyrac,  Dean  Church,  Sir  J.  F.  Stephen,  Saints- 
bury,  Norton,  Whibley,  Seccombe,  and  the  eloquent  and 
discriminating  study  by  Warwick  Bond  (1906). 

§  4.  SPECIAL  POINTS.  On  special  points,  and  especially 
for  hitherto  unpublished  or  unfamiliar  Letters,  the  writer 
must  refer  expressly  to  the  following  works  : — A.  Jubinal, 
Lettre  in/elite  de  M.^  1850  ;  Bigorie  de  Laschamps,  Michel 
de  Montaigne^  Paris  and  Rennes,  1855  ;  Lettres  de  Mar- 
guerite de  Valois ;  Pieces  du  Prows  de  Libri  (Pamphlets, 
Bibl.  de  France,  Lettres  de  Jubinal,  P.  Lacroix,  Naudet, 
etc.),  1849  (for  Letters  to  Henry  iv.  of  1585-90);  H. 
Wendell's  (1882),  and  Voizard's  £tude  sur  la  langue^ 
Paris,  1885  (for  linguistic  points);  Champollion-Figeac, 
Documents  Historiques  inedits ;  Sidney  Lee's  French  Renais- 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE     263 

same  In  England,  1910  (letter  about  Montaigne's  death); 
Livet's  Precieux  et  Precieuses,  Paris,  1859,  anc^  Mario  Schiff's 
La  fille  Dalliance  de  Montaigne,  Marie  de  Gournay,  Paris, 
1911  (for  Mile,  de  Gournay)  ;  The  Recherches  and  Docu- 
ments Inedits  of  Dr.  Payen  ;  and  the  Collections  (Cartons 
926-929,  Bibl.  Nat.)  of  J.  B.  Bastide.  For  works  dealing 
with  Montaigne  and  Shakespeare  it  will  suffice  to  refer 
to  the  works  of  P.  Chasles,  Feis,  and  J.  M.  Robertson 
(Montaigne  and  Shakespeare,  1909).  M.  Villey,  the  now 
well-known  blind  student  of  Montaigne,  whose  researches 
into  the  Montaigne  sources  have  excited  so  much  admira- 
tion, is  preparing  an  essay  on  this  subject.  The  derivation 
of  the  term  Essay  from  Montaigne  in  our  literature  is 
significant. 

§  5.  BIBLIOGRAPHIES.  Gamier,  in  the  fourth  volume  of 
Louandre's  edition,  still  serves  as  a  basis,  though  he  must 
be  supplemented  now  by  the  authorities  given  in  Petit 
de  Julleville,  Faguet,  and  Lanson  (in  their  Literary  His- 
tories), and  by  the  materials  presented  in  Gabriel  Richou's 
Inventaire  de  la  Collection  des  Ouvrages  et  Documents  sur 
M.  de  Montaigne  .  .  .  a  la  Bibl.  Nationale  ;  in  Nolhac  and 
Dorez,  Bibl.  Lift,  de  la  Renaissance  (1898);  in  Dowden's 
excellent  select  'Bibliography';  in  M.  Strowski's  Mon- 
taigne (in  Les  Grands  Philosophes] ;  and  in  W.  P.  Courtney's 
invaluable  Register  of  Bibliography.  Much  has  been  done 
on  the  sources  of  the  essayist  by  J.  de  Zangroniz,  Mon- 
taigne, Amyot  and  Saliat  (1906)  ;  Bonnefon  on  Montaigne's 
Library  (some  seventy-six  books  in  which  have  survived) ; 
and  especially  by  Pierre  Villey  in  his  Livres  eTkistoire 
utilises  par  Montaigne  (1908),  and  cognate  studies. 


INDEX 


ANDELOT,  103. 

Anjou,  Due  cT,  death  of,  117. 

Aquinas,  St.  Thomas,  handwriting 

of,  1 08. 

Ayquem,  Grimon  d',  grandfather 
of  Montaigne,  3. 
•      Pierre  d3  (de  Montaigne) — 
alluded  to,  64,  70,  73,  81. 
his  ancestors,  3. 
*  Apologie       de       Raymond 
Sebond,'  indirectly  due  to, 
90. 

his  business  at  Bordeaux,  3. 
buys  a  magistracy,  1 1 . 
character,  5-6. 
his  death,  90. 

his  education  and  tastes,  3-4. 
father  of  Michel   de    Mon- 
taigne, 3. 
his  negotiations  on  behalf  of 

Bordeaux,  10-11. 
his  portrait  by  Montaigne,  5- 
6. 

Raymond  d1 — 

great-grandfather    of    Mon- 
taigne, 3. 

BACON,  ANTHONY,  118-19,  145. 
Francis,  Lord,  compared  with 

Montaigne,  168. 
Bai'f,  reference  to,  20,  57. 
Balzac,  grammarian,  141. 
Beauregard,  Thomas  de,  4,  28,  90. 
Biron,    Marechal    de,    mayor    of 

Bordeaux     before     Montaigne, 

114. 

Blois,  Etats  de,  121. 
Bordeaux,  Court  of  Guienne  held 

at,  115-16. 


Bordeaux,   College   of  Jesuits  at, 

115. 
Montaigne,  mayor  of,  113, 

114-18. 

plague  at,  118. 

threatened  by  both  Ligueurs 

and  Huguenots,  n8. 

revolt  against  Gabelle  at,  10. 

Brach,  Pierre  de,  120,  133,  145- 

146. 

Brazilian  aborigines,  12. 
Buchanan,  Robert,  philosopher  and 

poet,  10. 

CALVIN  uses  La  Boetie's  pamphlet, 

'  Contre-un,'  15. 
Capella,  Bianca,  106. 
Carles,     Madame     de.     See    La 

Boetie,  Madame  de. 
Chapelain,  141. 
Charron,    Pierre    de,    friend    and 

disciple  of  Montaigne,  119. 
Chassaigne,    Fran9oise    de.       See 

Montaigne,  Madame  de. 
Chaumont,  Mademoiselle  de.     See 

Palmier  de. 

Corisande,  La  belle,  103. 
Coutras,  battle  of,  117. 
Cujas,  lecture  by,  10. 

DANOU,  reference  to,  20. 

Divizia,  peasant  poetess,  112. 

Dolet,  reference,  173. 

Dorat,  reference  to,  20. 

Du  Bellay,  Joachim,  his  poetry  and 

Montaigne's  prose,  107. 
Du  Bourg,  reference  to,  19. 

ERASMUS,  reference,  173. 


266     MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE 


Escars,  Monsieur  cT,  La  Boetie's 

game  with,  23. 

Essais.     See  under  Montaigne, 
litissac,    Sieur    d',    travels     with 

Montaigne,  102-13. 

FLORID,  Shakespeare's  acquaint- 
ance with,  215. 

his  translation  of  Essays,  261. 

Franca,  Veronica,  sends  '  Lettere 
diverse'  to  Montaigne,  106. 

GIRONDE,  lighthouse  at  mouth 
reconstructed  by  Montaigne, 
115. 

Goethe,  Montaigne  and,  229. 
Gouchet,  Nicholas,  tutor  to  Mon- 
taigne, 10. 

Gournay,  Marie  Le  Jars  de — 
her  adages,  131. 
her  appearance,  125-6. 
birth  and  girlhood,  126. 
character,  127,  129,  136,  139- 

140. 

a  critic  of  style,  132. 
self-education,  127. 
effect  of « Essays '  on,  128. 
fille  d'alliance  to  Montaigne, 

.45- 
friendship    with    Montaigne, 

125,  126,  128,  131,  133. 
mental  powers,  126-7. 
her    mother,     127,     128-30, 

'35- 

her  novel,  130. 
time  spent  with  Montaigne, 

129-30. 
Later  life— 

her  Academic,  139. 
autobiography,  140. 
her  cat  pensioned,  138. 
correspondence  with  Lipsius, 

135. 

correspondence  with  St.  Fran- 

gois  de  Sales,  141. 
her  death  (1645),  I4I- 
her  epigrams,  139. 
the  'Essays'  edited  by,  133- 


Gournay,  Marie  Le  Jars  de,  contd. — 
Eulogium  in  'Essays,'  132-5, 
Jesuits  defended  by,  139. 
her  page,  136,  138. 
her  pamphlets  and    treatises, 

137. 

at  Paris,  135-6. 
proposed  edition  of  Ronsard, 

139- 

ridiculed,  137-40. 
Richelieu  and,  135,  138. 
visits     Montaigne's     widow, 

134. 

on  women's  rights,  137. 
writings  on  French  language  : 

her  reforms  really  revivals, 

137. 
Grammont,  death  of,  103. 

Mme.  de,  Essay  on  Educa- 
tion dedicated  to,  225. 

Gregory  xin.,  Pope,  his  audience 

to  Montaigne,  109. 
Guerente,  Guillaume,  Montaigne's 

tutor,  10. 
Guienne,  College  de,  8,  115. 

Court  of,  115. 

Guise,  Francois,  Due  de,  12. 

Henri,  Due  de,  96,  97,  118, 

121. 

HENRI   in.,  96,   103,  113-14-16, 

120,  121. 

Hotman,  seen   by  Montaigne  on 
travels,  103. 

JAMES    I.,    Marie    de    Gournay's 
autobiography  sent  to,  140. 

LA  BOE'TIE — 

his  appearance,  14,  125. 

appointments  and  public  ser- 
vices, 19,  20. 

books  bequeathed  to  Mon- 
taigne, 44. 

character  and  mental  powers, 
14,  19. 

compared  with  Montaigne, 
14-15. 

defends  Ronsard,  20. 


INDEX 


267 


La  Boetie,  contd. — 

his  friendships,  20. 
friendship    with    Montaigne, 

12,  32-3,  51,  165-8,  203. 
inscription     in     Montaigne's 

tower  to,  55. 
marriage,  19. 
his     illness     and     death     at 

Germignan,  22-32. 
sends  for  M.  de  Beauregard, 

28. 
studies  under   Du   Bourg   at 

Orleans,  19. 
his  will,  26. 

works,  1 6,  39-40,  76,  89,  103. 
See  also  Montaigne,  Michel 
de — friends. 

Madame  de,  19,  23,26,31,33. 

Lansac,  Councillor,  friend  of  Mon- 
taigne, 76. 

Laval,  Charlotte,  her  clock,  20. 
Lestonnac,  Madame  de,  sister  to 
Michel  de  Montaigne,  Protes- 
tant, 4. 

her  knowledge  of  Greek,  8. 

L'Hopital,  Chancellor,  Montaigne's 
relations  with,  75-97. 

his  grandson  De  Thou,  116. 

Ligue,  the,  117-18-20. 

Lipsius,    Justin,    and    Marie    de 

Gournay,  135-41. 
Lopez,   Mademoiselle    de,  mother 
of  Michel  de  Montaigne,  3. 

MA  SEMBLANCE,  name  given  by 
La  Boetie  to  his  wife,  19. 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  her  execu- 
tion mentioned  by  Montaigne, 
92. 

Matignon,  governor  of  Guienne 
and  mayor  of  Bordeaux,  103, 
116-17-18. 

Mattecoulon,  Bertrand,  Sieur  de, 
younger  brother  of  Montaigne, 
90,  102,  113. 

Medici,  Catherine  de',  orders  Mon- 
taigne's release,  120. 

Mesme,  Henri  de,  friend  of  Mon- 
taigne, 76. 


Mesme,   Madame    de,   friend    of 

Montaigne,  76. 

Moliere,  possibly  inspired  by  jokes 
played  on  Marie  de  Gournay, 
140. 
Mont-de-Marsan,  seized  by  Henri 

of  Navarre,  1 1 6. 
Montaigne,  Chateau  of — 

atmosphere  of  religious  tolera- 
tion at,  4. 
improved  by  Pierre  d' Ayquem, 

4,  73- 
Marie  de  Gournay' s  visit  to, 

134- 
Michel  de  Montaigne  educated 

at,  4. 
*  Montaigne,'   Dowden's,   referred 

to,  15. 

Montaigne,  Lenor  de,  40,  44,  45, 
141. 

Madame  de — 

character,  39-40. 

as  doctor,  38. 

friendship     with     Marie     de 

Gournay,  134. 
management  of  estate  left  to, 

72. 
marriage,  33. 

Michel  de — 

appearance  and  dress,  13,  39, 

45,  102. 

awkwardness,  65. 
bibliographies,  262. 
his  books,  54,  56-63. 
Boyhood — 

birth  (1533),  3- 
disposition  and  health  in,  9. 
early  education  and  tutors, 

6-8-9-10. 

home  atmosphere,  4. 
love  of  Ovid,  8. 
school — the      College      de 

Guienne,  8. 

school :  left  at  thirteen,  9. 
student  at  Toulouse,  10. 
his  brothers.    See  Beauregard, 
Thomas  de;  Mattecoulon, 
Bertrand,  Sieur  de. 
buried  at  Feuillants,  259. 


268     MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE 


Montaigne,  Michel  de,  contd, — 
capture  by  robbers,  74-120. 
his  cat,  63. 
Catherine    de    Medici     and, 

I2O-I. 

central  ideas,  249-51. 
Character — 

affection  for  father,  6,  73. 
his  artist  side,  80. 
at  twenty-four,  13-14. 
attitude  to  beauty,  14. 
avoidance    of    worry,    66, 

78-9. 

personal  charm,  74,  77. 
compared  with  La  Boe"tie, 

J4-I5- 

cosmopolitanism,  170. 
curiosity,  12. 
De  Thou's  impressions  of, 

116. 

enjoyment    of    his    limita- 
tions, 67. 
enmity   to    change,   93-6  j 

to  conventionality,  40, 87  ; 

to  pedantry,  217. 
frankness,  178. 
hatred  of  cruelty,  81. 
indifference  to  events  of  his 

day,  12. 

indolence,  51,  52,  63. 
justice,  48. 
La  Boetie's  effect  on,  13, 

168,  203. 
lack  of  political  conviction, 

93- 

love  of  animals,  64. 

a  man  of  impressions,  80. 

moderation,  181-6. 

an  opportunist,  52. 

pessimist,  142. 

selfishness,  77,  87. 

unathletic,  64-5. 

worldly  prudence,  n. 

yielding  to  natural  inclina- 
tions, 43,  67,  81. 
children  of,  41. 
his  comparison  of  Ariosto  and 

,  Virgil,  57. 
his  conversation,  67-71. 


Montaigne,  Michel  de,  contd, — 
his  creed,  241-9. 
his  daily  life,  68-74. 
death  (1592),  133,  141. 
death,  four  accounts  of,  144- 

145. 
dedications    of    La    Boetie's 

works,  32,  39,  40,  76. 
descent  and  parentage,  3,  169- 

tjo. 

his  diary,  39. 
his  dilemma  between  Navarre 

and  Matignon,  116-17. 
diplomatic  achievements  and 

their  reward,  97. 
Essays  (1571-1588) — 

autobiographical   value   of, 
178. 

'  Apologie     de     Raymond 
Sebond,'  90-1. 

copy  presented  to  Richelieu, 

J35- 
dates    of    editions,     98-9, 

119-20,  133-5,  259-60. 
eulogium     of     Marie     de 

Gournay,      132-5,     and 

note, 
expurgated  by  Maestro  del 

Sacro  Palazzo  et  Vatican, 

no. 
edited     after    Montaigne's 

death  by  Marie  de  Gour- 
nay, 133-5- 
looseness  in  form  deliberate, 

149. 

philosophical  value  of,  97. 
Third  Book,  special  interest 

of,  98. 

translations  of,  261. 
why  written,  97,  119. 
For   Subjects,  see    end    of 

Index. 

estimate  of  Rabelais,  57. 
experience  of  military  life^  99. 
as  father,  40,  41,  42,  43,  44. 
his  father  (see  Ayquem,  Pierre 

d'). 
his  favourite  authors,  45,  58-9, 


INDEX 


269 


Montaigne,  Michel  de,  contd. — 

friends.  See  Bacon,  Anthony  5 
Brach,  Pierre  de  ;  Charron, 
Pierre  ;  Gournay,  Marie 
de  j  La  Boetie  j  L'Hopital, 
Michel  de ;  Lansac ;  Mesme, 
Henri  de ;  Navarre,  Henri 
de  j  Palmier,  Mile.  de. 

gentleman  of  the  bedchamber, 
96,  97. 

guardian  of  brother,  90. 

health,  13,  98,  99,  in,  113, 
1 20. 

his  home  at  Bordeaux,  10. 

as  husband,  33-40,  44-5. 

his  idea  of  perfect  state,  198. 

imprisonment  in  Bastille,  120. 

and  La  Boetie — 

their  friendship,  12-13,  l^~ 

34,  165-69,  203. 
superintends     printing     of 

works  by  La  Boetie,  89. 
See  also  La  Boetie. 

Letters,  19,  21,  40,  76,  169. 

literary  position,  174-6. 

love  of  ancient  authors,  60-2. 

love  for  Paris,  89. 

magistrate  of  Perigueux,  u. 

magistracy  resigned,  88. 

his  manners,  52,  82. 

his  marriage,  14,  33,  35. 

as  master,  48,  49,  50. 

mayor  of  Bordeaux,  113. 

mayoralty  at  Bordeaux  (1581- 
1585),  1 14-18. 

memory,  68. 

mission  to  Parlement  of  Bor- 
deaux, 96. 

monographs  on,  261-2. 

his  mother,  alluded  to,  4-5. 

musical  instruments,  53. 

his  order  of  St.  Michael,  96. 

in  Paris  (1588),  120. 

pictures,  52-3. 

plagiarism,  62. 

present  at  opening  of  Etats  de 
Blois,  121. 

provision  for  brother  and 
sisters,  90. 


Montaigne,  Michel  de,  contd. — 
and  the  Reformation,  93. 
his  religion,  4,  n,  93,233-48, 

240-9. 

resignation  of  mayoralty,  118. 
riding   his  favourite  exercise, 

64. 

Rouen,  at,  12. 
scheme  of  education,  174, 183, 

225-33.  ^ 
secret  of  his  fascination,  252- 

257. 

public  services,  54,  114,  118. 
sister.     See   Lestonnac,    Ma- 
dame de. 
tower,  51-63. 
translation       of       Raymond 

Sebond,  90-1. 
Travels — 

Andelot  visited   at   Plom- 
bieres,  103. 

Augsburg,  104. 

begun  June  1580,  101-2. 

companions  on,  102. 

his  dress,  102. 

Grammont's  death,  103. 

Hotman  at  Basel,  103. 

Innsbruck,  105. 

interests  on,  105,  108. 

Italy,  105. 

Italian  celebrities,  106. 

Journal  discovered,  260. 

Loreto,  1 1 1 . 

Lucca,  111-13. 

Matignon's  camp  before  La 
Fere,  103. 

observance  of  local  customs, 
104. 

his  requirements  on,  103. 

return,  113. 

Rome,  106-11. 

Tasso,  1 06. 

Venice  and  Veronica  Franca, 

106. 

visit  to  Picardy,  130. 
his    withdrawal    from     outer 

world,  91. 

Montpensier,  Due  de,  sends  Mon- 
taigne on  mission,  96. 


270     MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE 


Mornay,  Du  Plessis,  writes  to  Mon- 
taigne by  order  of  Henri  of 
Navarre,  116. 

Muret,  Marc  Antoine,  tutor  to 
Montaigne,  10. 

NAVARRE,  HENRI  DE — 

friendship   with    Montaigne, 

92,  122-3. 

king  of  France,  121. 
magnetism  of,  75. 
Montaigne  negotiates  for,  97, 

.  *17- 

visit    to    chateau    of    Mon- 
taigne, 1 1 6. 

Margaret  de — 

expelled  from  Paris,  116. 
her  memoirs,  176. 

PAILLON,    MADAME,    Marie    de 

Gournay's  cat,  138. 
Palmier,  Madame  de,  letter  from 

Montaigne  to,  76. 
Paris,  love  of,  89. 
Pascal,  Montaigne  and,  177,  236, 

238,  244-6. 
Pasquier,  Etienne — 

account  of  Montaigne's  death, 

145; 

at  Blois  with  Montaigne,  121. 
fellow-student     with     Mon- 
taigne, 10. 

Perigueux,  Court  of,  merged  in 
Parlement  of  Bordeaux,  u. 


RABELAIS,   164,    173,    175,    191, 

205,  209,  228-9. 
Racan    and  Marie    de    Gournay, 

140-1. 
Raymond,  Florimond  de,  account 

of  Montaigne's  death,  144. 
Reaux,  Historiettes  de  Tallemant 

de,  138. 

Reuchlin,  reference,  173. 
Richelieu — 

copy  of f  Essays  '  presented  to, 

!35- 

pensions  given   to   Marie    de 

Gournay  by,  138. 
Ronsard — 

as  a  Hedonist,  174. 
proposed  edition  of,  139. 
and  La  Boetie,  20. 
Rousseau    compared   with    Mon- 
taigne, 179,  196-7-8,  229,  253. 

SAINT-EVREMOND,  his  play  on 
Marie  Le  Jars  de  Gournay,  137. 

SchifF,  Mario,  135,  note. 

Se*bond,  Raymond,  account  of,  90. 

Shakespeare,  196,  200-2,  205,  214- 
216. 

TASSO  visited  in  prison  by  Mon- 
taigne, 1 06. 
Thou,  De— 

his  impression  of  Montaigne, 

116. 
at  Blois  with  Montaigne,  121. 


THE  ESSAYS 
SUBJECTS  QUOTED 


ANGER,  48. 

Ayquem,    Pierre    d',    5-6,    64-53 
73- 

BOOK-LEARNING,  218-22,  232-3. 
Books,  58-63. 

CHANGE,  193-6. 
Children,  41. 


Compatriots,  170. 

Conduct    of  Life,    171-2,    183-5, 

234-5,  246,  249-50. 
Conversation,  85-7. 
Cruelty,  81. 
Custom,  152,  193. 

DEATH,  142-4,  238-9. 
Doctors,  143. 


INDEX 


271 


EDUCATION,  43,  225-33. 

FAITHS,  241. 
Frankness,  158,  177-9. 
Friendship,  16-18,  22,  34,  166-7, 

203. 
Friendship  to  a  man's  self,   77-8, 

249. 
Future  life,  169,  240. 

GOVERNESSES,  43-4. 

HIMSELF,  8-9,  13,  33,  41,  61-75, 
78-83,  89,  93,  147-8,  149-53, 
158,  163,  170,  171-2,  178-80, 
187,  234-7. 

His  Book,  98,  149,  176. 

History,  232. 

Household  management,  50. 

INTERCOURSE,  223. 

MONTAIGNE,  MICHEL  DE — 
absence  of  mind,  68. 
hardship,  66. 
kindliness,  37. 
knowledge,     209-16,     223-5, 

232. 

The  Lord's  Prayer,  247. 
manners,  50. 

marriage,  35-6-7,  47,  203. 
on  medicines,  38,  77. 
miracles,  193-5. 
moderation,  184-5,  187-8. 


Montaigne,  Michel  de,  contd. — 
modern  writers,  157. 
money,  49-50,  66. 

NATURE,  170,  191-215. 
Navarre,  Henri  de,  92. 

PHILOSOPHY,  213. 
Poetasters,  57. 
Prayer,  247. 
Privacy,  51. 

QUOTATIONS,  159. 

RELATIONSHIPS,  202. 
Repentance,  236-7. 
Rome,  106-7. 

SCHOOL  OF  LIFE,  223-7. 

Self-study,  176-8. 

Soul  and  Body,  205-8. 

Style,  153-7. 

Survival  of  the  Dead,  6,  169. 

TRANSCENDENT  HUMOURS,  171- 

172. 

Travel,  100-1. 
Truth,  237. 
of  portraiture,  151. 

WIDOWS,  77. 

Wisdom,  232. 

Women,  36-8,  46-7,  203-4. 

World,  the,  171-2. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


THIS 


IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL    FINE    OF    25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


KBTURN-        AJ6171933 


APR  211941 
0£C  13   JS44 


1946 


4Maf50MB 


15 


JUN  5    1956  L  U 

4Feb'57PT 


REC'D  LD 


7  Dec'59CT 
RECD 

NOV301959 


LD  21-50m-l,'33 


LD  2lA-50m-8,'61 


YC  64680 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


